Playing With Fire
by smilelaughread
Summary: Draco resurfaces after a few years in hiding, but why? Harry makes it his mission to find out and to remedy whatever it is.
1. What Luck

**I.**

When Draco threw his arms back, emotion ripping through him, he felt the very life within him being shaken.

His mouth was open, his jaw locked, tremors rising through him. He felt every heartbeat, aware of the rush it caused in his ears. He wanted to sink his nails and his teeth into something—anything. He had to hold on, to be in control, but everything was being taken from him all at once. Bare, lost, screaming with no idea who might be listening, Draco somehow managed to keep existing. If he didn't hold on, he might drift away. The moment was elusive, fleeting, just beyond his grasp.

His skin was on fire, sharp sparks darting underneath the surface, pushing and pulling until he couldn't remember what reality was. His breath was stolen, his voice another's.

Beneath him was coolness, inside him only heat, and everything else fell away. Nothing else mattered. This was everything and this was nothing. It was being ripped in half, into pieces. It was being turned inside out.

There was abandon. The carnal need to claim, remember, and experience. But he was nothing, he couldn't remember, and every nerve ending was burned out.

There was comfort in losing his mind.

He could only shut his eyes against everything else and scream.

 **II.**

57 days after the final battle at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy's name was cleared of all charges. His youth and a testimony from Harry Potter sealed the case in a few short hours, after which he was let free.

58 days after the final battle at Hogwarts and, inexplicably, for the following 700-and-a-few days—not that anyone was counting—Draco Malfoy disappeared entirely from the face of Wizarding Britain. In the beginning, the Prophet theorized, the public panicked, and Harry followed the story to the letter.

Of course, as with everything else, the chaos of the war reparations soon overshadowed the small question of the Malfoy heir's whereabouts.

For that reason, by the time Draco Malfoy emerged from hiding two days before Harry's twentieth birthday, his name had been forgotten, wiped from dinner-table conversations completely.

Where Diagon Alley had once shied away from the Malfoys' imposing name and status, it finally arrived that Draco was the outsider. He hid in the shadows, safely tucked away from the passers-by on the quiet street.

That anonymity was removed shortly, as Draco Malfoy had never liked to be ignored. The day after Harry Potter's birthday, Draco was apprehended by Aurors at nightfall in Madam Malkin's shop for causing a "public disturbance".

She'd been illuminating her shop with some slight candles as dusk's heavy hand tangled the sun in tendrils of inky darkness. Draco had frozen in place, stillness of body belayed horrifically by the garbled shouts that were torn from his lips.

 **III.**

Harry looked at the files that he held tightly in his hands, staring down at the information with only dim understanding.

Of course the hospital's newest patient had to fall onto him just after his birthday. Of course the other Healer with his level of clearance and history with _prolific figures_ was away on holiday.

Harry found himself thinking that he always had the worst luck.

It was approaching midnight, Malfoy had finally calmed down in one of the mental ward's rooms, but Harry's job hadn't even begun. He had to make a formal assessment and the report in his hands, bound to an overly-thick sheaf of papers, was the first step in organizing all the documentation needed to discharge Malfoy—or, Harry gulped, to admit him.

 _Unresponsive. Incomprehensible shouting. Resistance only to being touched._

 _Immobilization by magic was the only option._

 _Personal effects include: wand, photograph, 25 Galleons,13 Sickles, vial of dreamless sleep._

 _Investigated: In possession of ice cubes—charmed not to melt. Deemed safe._

 _All items have been delivered with this report._

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. Trying to gauge Malfoy's mental state from inexperienced, tight-lipped Aurors' reports wasn't encouraging any sort of confidence in him. Worry coursed through him as he realized that his assessment had to be done—successfully.

But when did anything with Draco Malfoy and him ever go well?

The minutes that separated their meeting dwindled until a knock sounded out at Harry's door. He glared at it, composed himself, and then called out for Malfoy to enter.

"Good evening, Draco," Harry said, engineering a calm and commanding tone for the sake of the situation. The name rolled easily from his tongue. It hardly tasted bitter, which was surprising. Inside, he was hot with accusations and questions until the childhood anger froze and dissipated when he took in the sight before him.

The thin, frail man sitting on the plush chair looked far too weak. Harry doubted, for a moment, that he was facing the same Draco Malfoy as he had been for a decade.

This Malfoy's gaze didn't rise from the floor, though, and the defiance was typical.

Harry cleared his throat before speaking. "Do you remember the incident? I'd like you to describe it to me to the best of your ability."

Again, no reaction. Harry scribbled something onto his paper, noting retroactively that Malfoy had flinched from Harry's use of his first name.

"I need something from you, Draco, or neither of us will be able to leave this office." Harry's voice rose rather quickly, but he pushed down on the past and tried to fall into the mindset of a Healer, as he was supposed to. Then again, there was nothing "supposed to" about treating patients with whom he shared a connection as deep as the one he had with Malfoy.

Silence. Stillness. The spacious office that belonged to Harry suddenly seemed stifling and he ran a hand through his hair in uncertainty.

Harry wondered if Malfoy was as easy to taunt as he had once been. "I could return your wand."

 _For the second time, Malfoy, stop losing it._

Infuriatingly enough, there was no response.

"I have some of your possessions, but to release you completely, I need to know what you're thinking."

And it certainly looked like Malfoy was thinking, nose scrunched just slightly. Those thin, white lips were pressed tightly together. Harry wondered if the silence was wearing him down or giving him time to raise more defences.

Heavy robes that did not quite befit the hot August night trailed along the floor as Malfoy shifted his weight. Harry noted his discomfort.

"Do you need me to bring you something else to wear?" Perhaps a kinder tactic would work.

Harry froze when Malfoy pinned him with an icy gaze. "I don't need anything from you, Potter. Just do your job."

It was with mild satisfaction that Harry picked up his quill, dipped it carefully in the inkwell, and scribbled some more words onto the report. He felt a glee that threw him back into his childhood rivalry with Malfoy.

Malfoy looked suspicious.

"What are you writing?"

"My questions came first," Harry commented neutrally.

Draco shook his head firmly. Harry bit down on a frustrated sigh, jaw working to suppress it. Malfoy was quite the same brat he'd been as a child, it seemed. He glanced quickly at the timepiece on his desk.

"If we both want to leave," Malfoy said, "can't we both go? No one needs to know. Fake the report, tell them I'm fine."

The offer he suggested was one Harry wished he could take, but his responsibility to the hospital ran too deep—or perhaps his Gryffindor loyalty was finally coming around to bite his arse. Maybe he was just crazy.

Malfoy'd always made him crazy.

"If I did that, would I be lying?"

Malfoy didn't respond.

"This report has to be done before we go."

"I'm tired."

Harry wrote it down but it rang with insincerity. Though Malfoy had dark smears under his eyes, though he looked gaunt and pallid, Harry reckoned his Healer's intuition and history with Malfoy were more reliable. Fatigue, though present, was not the reason for his stubbornness.

"If you'd prefer to continue this in the morning, we'll have to keep you here."

Malfoy sneered, lifting his chin defiantly. "That's ridiculous. I demand my freedom."

Harry shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry, but there are regulations and procedures in place for this kind of thing. Your magic exploded rather dangerously in Diagon Alley. If that was reason to call me in for extra hours, it's reason enough to keep you here. Especially if _you don't remember it_."

"And if I do remember it?"

Finally. Harry snapped around the prey he'd been taunting, realizing with dread that every concession he might get from Malfoy that night would have to be fought for tooth and nail.

"If you're saying you remember, then we return to my questions. Retell the events to me."

Malfoy's eyes shifted to the wall directly behind Harry's left ear. He pretended not to notice. He also pretended he didn't see the nervous twitch Malfoy gave when Harry picked up his quill to write something again.

"I remember your Aurors manhandling me." Malfoy announced primly.

"Before that?"

Malfoy's bottom lip jutted out. There was a heavy pause during which Malfoy made a decision—to withhold something, probably.

"I don't remember. I was in the shop and then I wasn't, and now I'm here."

Harry engaged in a drawn-out staring contest for long seconds, knee shaking under his desk from the tension. The silence grew thick and heavy, and Harry thought he could identify the very moment Draco's determination became set in stone.

Something in the grey eyes changed—solidified. Perhaps it came with the quirk of an eyebrow.

Still, Harry had the upper hand. He hated to play his power into Healer-patient relationships most of the time, but with Draco Malfoy, it was sweet.

"If that's the case, we'll have to keep you here for care until we identify the trigger and apply the appropriate treatment to avoid the same thing happening in the future."

He took some notes at Malfoy's eyes closing in defeat, knowing full well that Malfoy had been withholding the truth and that Malfoy knew he'd been caught right in the middle of it.

The Slytherin had never known when to shut up.

Harry closed the file with a snap and stood. Pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, he extended a hand to his patient out of habit. It must have been particularly late because Harry looked down at his arm with as much surprise as Malfoy, as though it had moved without his mind's instruction.

He always ended sessions with a handshake. It was perfunctory, but following the simple tradition with Malfoy seemed wrong.

Still more surprise rooted him to the floor when Draco let out a strange sound like a whimper, turned on his heel, and marched out of the room. Harry didn't drop his arm as the door slammed shut behind billowing robes.

Instead, he pressed the palm to his forehead, wondering how far back he'd just set them, knowing that his upcoming weeks were going to be filled with not only an angry, troubled Malfoy, but an _offended_ one at that.

Unfortunately, his professional duty demanded that he file the report honestly. Malfoy would have to stay because he was clearly struggling with something.

He'd survived six years with Malfoy, experienced various moments of Malfoy's power and anger, and had made it out alive.

The standard length of retention was two weeks.

Harry cast a look down at the paperwork on his desk, the forms that had yet to be filled, and let out a very deep breath. The reports were the least favourite part of his job. He loved helping, using his time to heal others, but it all went mind-numbing when he had to fill out form J385-17 for every patient at every session.

His heart sank, knowing that it had to be done—properly filed and submitted—by the morning, or Hermione would kill him through the floo from her honeymoon. She loved paperwork _that much_.

He roughly sat down, pushing aside the watch that mocked him with its steady countdown, and broke the tip of his quill on his first attempt at writing _Draco Malfoy_ on the form.

Pushing up his glasses with the back of his hand, Harry knew he was in for a long night.


	2. Molly Weasley's Best Student

**IV.**

Of course, Malfoy yelled at one of the nurses-in-training on his first morning, something about a conspiracy that he was convinced she was involved with.

To Harry's dismay, two reports against Malfoy's mental state were enough to secure him _three_ weeks in hospital—even without Harry's assessment, which had also already been submitted.

The first time Harry felt he had any sort of progress with Malfoy, his most trying patient, was three days after his arrival at the hospital.

"It's rather hot in here, isn't it?" Malfoy commented, and Harry couldn't help the way his eyes moved to the hand Malfoy had raised to his collar, tugging at the robes.

It was the first thing he'd volunteered to say without prompting from Harry, who had learned better than to write eagerly on the parchment to his right. It raised Malfoy's ire too quickly to be helpful, setting him on edge.

Carefully, so that he wouldn't draw attention to his movement, he wrote: _sensitive to temperature._

"Well, Draco," he spoke slowly, having experimented over the course of three days with the best Healer voice to use on Malfoy; he was incredibly skittish. "It _is_ the middle of the summer. Perhaps—we could find you some more appropriate robes?"

A light hint of red rose high on Malfoy's cheeks, settling there for a moment before spreading out towards his ears and down under the dark material that covered Malfoy from mid-neck down. Harry tore his eyes away, looking down at his sparse notes with decided determination.

"I've told you before, _Potter,"_ his name was spat, "that I don't need anything from you."

Without missing a beat, Harry set in on his usual reply. "In this setting, please refer to me as Harry."

Draco knew his cue. He scowled and slouched back in his seat. After a moment's consideration, he straightened his back again, as though the pose was unbefitting a Malfoy.

 _Hmm_ …

Harry wrote: _has not yet referred to himself as a Malfoy_.

It wasn't any enormous comment, but it was enough to give Harry pause. As far as he remembered, it was with great pride that Malfoy carried his name. Was it possible that times had changed?

He put a star next to his written comment, looking up with a small smile.

"Thank you, Draco," he said. "I think we're finally getting somewhere."

Harry's patient looked at him as though he'd grown another head. He narrowed his eyes in concentration, fists clenching and unclenching in his lap. His tongue briefly peeked out from between his lips to wet them.

Harry fought the urge to write that down. The nervous ticks shouted at him, demanding his attention. Malfoy's presence had always been so _loud,_ even when he wasn't trying.

Something was changing right before his eyes. Resolve gave way.

Hesitation like a stuttering heartbeat, then, "I want to know what you're writing."

Harry shook his head. "I'll present my conclusions to you at a later date. For now, we're just talking. Don't mind the notes."

Harry had never really known how not to upset Malfoy. He'd never really wanted not to.

"How can I not mind the bloody notes when they're being written about me? I'm not a child—just tell me what you're fucking writing!"

They were hurried words with an unclear fervour behind them. Harry inwardly congratulated himself.

With great care, he formed his next words, "I'm simply making observations."

" _Observations!_ Oh, yes, because I'm sure you think I'm some kind of lunatic. On top of everything else in my life, haven't you stopped to think that I don't need _you-"_

The chair was pushed away as Malfoy stood, skin mottled and red. Harry watched, fascinated and confused, as he hastily ripped the buttons out of the holes where they fastened his robes. The heavy material fell, pushed to the chair behind him, displaying a worn-out white shirt and plain trousers.

Malfoy was breathing hard, eyes darting around in panic.

Harry worked hard not to react. He had to let the scene play out just a few moments longer. His pulse raced, pushing against his skin with a power that Harry remembered from duelling.

Why was it so satisfying—and so terrifying—to watch Malfoy fall apart?

"It's just-" Malfoy looked incredibly uncomfortable, tugging at the collar of his shirt as though he had thoughts of removing it as well. He shifted his weight forwards, onto his toes, and looked down at Harry over the tip of his nose. He panted and the office buzzed with energy. "It's really hot in here."

Without ever looking away from Malfoy, Harry opened the top drawer of his desk. He pulled out a small bag of ice cubes that Malfoy's eyes locked onto with an urgency that Harry could not explain.

How would he ever record that _fire_ onto paper?

"Those are mine." Malfoy's voice was low and rumbling, and Harry stood to match his patient before reaching an arm out.

"I know. I was just waiting for the moment that you might need them."

Looking rather unsteady, Malfoy lurched forward and snatched the ice from Harry's grasp. Malfoy pressed the ice to his hairline, bowing his head.

Harry watched as the tension that had lined every muscle in Malfoy's shoulders relaxed slowly. His breathing returned to normal. Harry counted the seconds, carefully storing the information in his mind so that he could write it down at a later moment.

A loud scraping sound jolted him from his thoughts, and Harry looked back to Malfoy to see him seated once again, looking defeated and deflated.

"What now?" Malfoy asked, still pressing the ice to his skin. First, the small cubes were pushed against the pulse point on his neck, then to the the skin of his wrists.

"Now," Harry said, "we figure out how to help you work with your sensitivity."

Malfoy looked at him with tortured eyes, blinking a few times as though to clear them of something. Harry noted that his own heart was beating wildly in his chest, threatening to escape.

He'd felt the crackling of errant magic during Malfoy's outburst. Something had to be done.

"I'd just like to ask one question."

Malfoy shut his eyes. In turn, he pressed the small bag to his eyelids in practiced, simple movements. Then, his arms fell to his knees. He didn't reopen his eyes but his posture remained open.

Harry felt a surge of hope, though a different part of him—one that dated back to childhood—identified a moment of weakness, perfect for attack.

He put the thought from his mind. "When did you notice that you couldn't control your magic?"

A choked sound was the only answer to the question. Harry's fingers itched to write it down.

"Do you know what could be causing that lack of control?"

"No."

"I'll set you up for a general examination later today. As far as you know, are you of good health?"

A small shrug, just the minute rise and fall of his shoulders. If Harry hadn't been watching him intently, it could have been a breath. Because Harry was watching him so intently, he knew it couldn't have been-Malfoy was holding his breath.

"Have you been sleeping regularly?"

The crinkling of the bag in Malfoy's hands told Harry that his grip had tightened.

There was something…

"Draco, this is important if we want to start helping you."

Tendrils of stringy blond hair fell onto his forehead as his head dipped forward, eyes still shut. The words were practically mumbled into his lap.

"I didn't hear you, Draco." Harry thought he had heard, but wanted to make sure he wasn't mistaken.

"I've grown immune to dreamless sleep."

That meant insomnia. Deep, winding resistance that the body built up to all kinds of sleep.

Harry's mind raced as he thought about what it would take to grow immune in the two years of Malfoy's absence—or less, if he'd started taking it more recently.

That possibility was frightening. Didn't Malfoy know the damage he could do to his brain? Even Harry'd managed to retain that kind of information from Snape's lessons.

Unable to stop himself any longer, Harry picked up his quill and twirled it between his fingers. His following question would probably come with an answer that he'd need to mitigate by writing it down.

"What dosage did y-"

"Triple the recommended maximum. Er… daily."

The Healer in Harry was shocked and horrified at the information. Usually, the accepted dose was about half the recommended maximum spread over a week. Sometimes less did the trick. Whatever Malfoy's problem, it ran deep.

He could only hope that the potion had been made reliably with quality ingredients.

" _Why_ did you start taking it?"

"Nightmares, Potter. The nightmares wouldn't stop."

Harry heard vulnerability and fear in Malfoy's voice, though he was speechless and had no idea what an appropriate response might be. His twelve months in intense training and six months of top-priority patients couldn't possibly have prepared him.

The worst part was that Harry knew exactly the nightmares Malfoy was alluding to.

He'd seen his fair share of scarred witches and wizards in the wake of the war, but Harry knew that Malfoy's involvement with all of it ran far deeper than most others', much like his.

Voldemort himself had lived in Malfoy Manor—tortured, killed, and raved.

Something changed. A twinge of sympathy ran through Harry, because despite all their childhoods, Malfoy had been just as hurt by the war as anyone else.

"Thank you," Harry said after an unthinkable length of time. His voice was shaky, and he had to clear it before standing. "That was very insightful, Draco. We'll start some therapy. It might be a bit much all at once, but we'll start talking about what you dream about."

Malfoy just ran a hand through his hair and gripped it tight, pulling until his knuckles grew white.

He took in a deep, shuddering breath, and Harry knew that Malfoy was fighting tears. The absurdity of the situation struck him, along with shock at the world into which he had been thrust, one in which Draco Malfoy could cry. The implications of that new reality had yet to sink in.

Harry did what he knew, always Molly Weasley's most attentive student. He walked around his desk with hurried paces, past Malfoy, and stopped right at the door.

"I'll bring us some tea," Harry announced at Malfoy's hunched back. It reminded him of a bathroom, of another moment when Malfoy'd been in tears.

He vowed not to muck it up as he had that time.

When he returned with one steaming mug in hand, Malfoy was gone and the office was strangely dull. It was as though the scarce colour of the pale green walls had been leached, leaving behind a dreary, lifeless beige.

Harry unsuccessfully tried to calm his frantic nerves with a sip of too-hot tea, then set to writing up the events of their session.

His mind was loud and chaotic the entire time—with excitement at the progress or dread at Malfoy's revelations, he couldn't tell.


	3. Mistake

**V.**

It was most definitely Harry's fault when, the next day, their session went rather less productively. Malfoy's eyes were drooping, practically closing before he wrenched them open time and time again.

Caught up, retroactively, in the success of the previous day and a newfound desire to help Malfoy, Harry's slow process of inquiry became rather rushed. In his so-called defence, it was hard to re-train his mind to consciously avoid hurting Malfoy. There were still suspicions whispering doubts into his mind about Malfoy—could he be up to something?

"Have you thought about the nightmares? Can you tell me what they're about?"

Malfoy's gaze travelled over Harry's body slowly, and Harry didn't understand until the lethargic weight of those pale eyes landed on his hand. More specifically, the quill he gripped tightly.

"N-not with observations." There was a slight pause after the weak words, almost as though Malfoy wanted to say _please_. Harry dropped the quill before he could write that down. Facts, not guesswork, his mentor had always said.

"There." He swept the paper to the side, letting his quill slide until it was harmlessly out of arm's reach. Malfoy still stared at it, and then his face contorted in what Harry recognized as a yawn.

Right. He remembered, again, the task at hand.

"So," he prompted, "what can you tell me about the nightmares?"

Malfoy looked ill at ease. He wore his usual thick robes and his hair almost looked brown with the dull, dirty layer of grime that concealed its shine.

"I'm not ready to talk about that. I don't want to. I'll be fine."

Harry was unconvinced. Still, even he realized it would be in bad taste to remind Malfoy of the unnecessary and untreated problems that had arisen in Malfoy's life in recent days of his own doing. Malfoy probably knew.

"What, then?"

If prompting wasn't working, perhaps Malfoy would have ideas of his own. He had always been one for control, no matter how petty, Harry thought with a hint of malice.

An owl flew by outside of his window, and Harry was thrown suddenly from his thoughts. His stomach knotted painfully. It hovered for a moment, a letter attached to its leg. Harry didn't relax until the bird flew past, thankfully, and he shook his head free of worry.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking back to a perplexed Malfoy, "could you repeat that?"

"Tell me what happened after I left." He cleared his throat. "I didn't keep up with the papers."

Harry supposed it was as good a topic as any, with one stipulation. At least it would give him a chance to inquire about Malfoy's past.

He assumed Malfoy was familiar with exchanges. "First, can you tell me where you hid?"

"Need somewhere to run from all your admirers?" There was a hint of resentment in his tone.

Harry forced himself to give a nonchalant smile, though it tasted bland on his lips. Why did Malfoy always go for his supposed fame? It was an old taunt that struck too close to home for Harry to accept.

"We can talk about me outside of the office. Right now, tell me about you."

Malfoy looked to the window with yearning sparkling in his eyes. They had a view from the top of the hill on a cloudy day. Harry understood the desire to leave the humid office to fly in the pre-storm thrum.

"I was in France. _Mon français n'est pas parfait, mais pendant mon enfance ma mère m'a enseigné le necessaire._ We have a house there, where we lived sometimes when I was younger. I refreshed my childhood French."

Harry wondered for just a moment about what Malfoy would have to say if he knew about the way Harry had grown up. How much derision would there be in his superior sneer if Malfoy found out that, while he had been traveling, Harry had been cleaning and living in a cupboard?

They'd lived entirely different lives. It seemed almost impossible that their paths had crossed so many times, in light of that.

"What prompted you to come back?"

Malfoy shook his head. "I answered your question, now answer mine."

Harry looked down at the solid surface of his desk and wondered why he felt like the world was caving in around him.

"You were here for the trials," he began, looking up to meet Malfoy's gaze. He held it for a few moments, then let his eyes slide casually around the room. "After you disappeared, we had some problems with the more… enthusiastic former Death Eaters. Azkaban was completely rebuilt. Once immediate threats were over, we set about fixing all of the damaged buildings. There was a huge movement towards charity work and donations—but Hogwarts wasn't hurt physically so much as magically."

He took a breath to continue, but noticed that Malfoy's lips were pursed again and that something was wrong.

"Draco, what is it?" Perhaps it would be the key to finding the root of his fears.

"Don't talk about… it doesn't matter. Just—."

"Hogwarts?" Harry was utterly confused. He wanted to write it down and ponder it, but he couldn't waste time.

Malfoy shifted his weight, settling back in the seat. Harry took that as an affirmative answer and decided to push for it.

"Do you know what happened there?"

" _Please_."

Harry continued, curious despite the complaints. "After the fighting, the trace of dark magic was hard to erase."

Draco rolled his head so that he was facing the ceiling, a grimace stretching his lips.

"We waited until after the trials to rebuild, and lessons were moved temporarily so they wouldn't interfere with the work."

"Potter, _stop_." In the beginning, Malfoy's suffering had been delicious, but Harry wished he'd relax a little—there was _something_ to be found in their line of conversation.

"I went back a little, but Neville was really the one in charge. He did an amazing job. Perhaps you should go see it."

Draco shook his head. "No."

"The worst part was that a large part of the castle had its defences tarnished and enchantments tangled. It was burnt and charred, stones black and cursed."

Malfoy's fingers flew to his collar, trying to tug. His eyes rolled back, and he started to mumble. Harry could feel bursts of magic from him and moved his hand to his wand just in case it was needed.

Any enjoyment he was getting from the situation disappeared completely. A sick feeling settled in his stomach. Then, Malfoy threw his head back, ashen. The waves of magic were coming stronger, and Harry felt it prickle through him.

Malfoy started to scream.

The sounds were animalistic, frantic, and Harry could see that he was reliving something in his past. Malfoy started to shake, choking and retching as he fell from the chair to the floor. He landed on hands and knees, sputtering, then his muscles gave way and he slumped forward.

His body connected audibly with the ground, a sharp exhale in harmony with the thump.

Harry hurried to cast some charms. It was safest to let the magical fit run its course, but he cushioned the floor and spelled the chair back so that Malfoy wouldn't be in danger of knocking his head. It was a sight he'd seen before, but hadn't been aware that Malfoy's condition was so deep-set.

While he waited, worry hot inside of him, Harry tried to piece the evidence together.

It could be memories of the _cruciatus_. Perhaps he'd been tortured? Or, more generally, could he be reliving a horrific memory? It could have been any number of things.

The minutes dragged on, and Malfoy looked like he wasn't on his way to recovery.

He was sweating, clawing at his skin and shouting nonsense that almost sounded like words. His breath came in sharp gasps that caused him to arch his back and pound fists into the ground.

Without even thinking about it, Harry conjured some ice.

Not analyzing why his heart was thumping so loudly in his chest—Malfoy wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last to fall apart in his office—Harry knelt down beside the flailing body. With a gentle push, he turned Malfoy onto his back, feeling tense muscles under his fingertips.

Mimicking what he'd seen Malfoy do, he pressed the ice to the blond's forehead. Bloodshot eyes opened in surprise. Tears leaked from the corners in endless streaks, leaving wet trails to his temples, and with a shaky breath, he rolled to his side again to lay, curled.

Malfoy's limbs finally went completely limp.

The words Malfoy tried to form got lost halfway, so Harry just ran the ice cube slowly across his forehead. It became slippery, leaving a trail of water behind it, but Malfoy's eyes were glazed with relief.

It could have been a few minutes, though it felt like an hour, that Harry's fingers pushed ice around Malfoy's skin. He found sensitivity at the valley of his collarbone, a spot that made Malfoy let out a deep sigh.

Finally, he spoke. "You don't have to do this."

Harry shrugged. "It's what Healers do."

Malfoy only blinked in return.

"Could—do you think it's possible… " Malfoy paused, pursing his lips. "I ordered robes from Madam Malkin's the other day. Could I retrieve them? These are heavy winter robes."

Harry nodded once. Finally, the concession had come and Malfoy had admitted to his stubbornness. It didn't feel quite as good as Harry might have expected.

The robes meant that he was starting to trust Harry, at least professionally. If that wasn't the weirdest thing he'd ever had to think about… .

Without meaning to, the decision was made in his mind.

He couldn't ask someone else to go pick up a patient's order, but his break was coming up…

"Are they under your name?"

"Yes." Malfoy extended an arm, shaking just slightly, and Harry took the frail hand in his own to help pull Malfoy to his feet.

"Feeling better?" Harry asked. "I'm sorry I pushed you there."

Malfoy didn't answer. He stood, wobbling in place, before Harry pushed the chair in his direction once more with the instruction to take the seat.

"Don't worry, Potter," Malfoy said, trying for disinterest. "It's happened before."

That piqued Harry's interest, most definitely.

"How many times?"

"I didn't count."

"Can you trace a common trigger to the attacks?"

Malfoy looked helpless, and Harry knew that pressing him for more information was going to be next to impossible. He needed rest.

"Right." Harry cleared his throat. "We spoke last time about dreamless sleep, and in light of your resistance to it, I thought it would be best to prescribe some calming draught. It won't have the same effect, but I will give you a relatively large dose to begin. I hope it will encourage sleep and allow you to rest your mind."

Harry twirled the quill in his hands, running the feather across his bottom lip just once, thinking. When he knew what he wanted to write, he scribbled out instructions on a small card.

"You'll have to give this to your nurse. It will be a small dose just before lunch, then another right before sleep. Expect some grogginess and confusion, but we'll be here to help you if you need anything."

There was a look of humiliation on Malfoy's face, his eyes downcast.

"I can take a potion on my own. I don't _need_ help."

Harry looked him right in the eye. "Malfoy, it's a matter of your safety as well as my other patients'. With a history of misusing potions, I have reason to believe you _can't_ take it on your own."

There was a funny niggling at the back of his mind that told Harry he would have had the same self-righteous reaction if the situation were switched. Was it fair to expect more docility from Malfoy than he would from himself?

The remainder of the session was as uneventful as the first few had been, and when Malfoy finally stepped out, Harry was left with a pounding headache.

He looked at the unanswered, unopened mail on the corner of his desk, dread growing heavily in his belly. With a defiant look—in vain, because the post didn't have eyes—at the pile, Harry removed his Healer robes.

From the second drawer of his desk, Harry pulled out a small device that would alert him if he was needed at the hospital. While he was, technically, on-call, he could run his errands freely, and he had one particular responsibility in mind.

He grabbed some floo powder from the decorative bowl on the mantle above his office's fireplace, but replaced it when he decided he'd been having a rough few days—he needn't make it worse by travelling by floo powder, which he'd always hated.

Clutching his wand in one hand and thinking, _"Madam Malkin's!"_ with great determination, Harry felt the squeeze of apparition and landed ungracefully just in front of her shop.

She was rather helpful, swooning over him just subtly enough that Harry could casually ignore it, and Harry left her shop feeling only a little harassed. He'd thought, once, that the fame would subside, but that hadn't yet come true, even two years later.

The robes were sealed in a small pouch, pressed to stay wrinkle-free, and Harry carried them under his arm as he apparated back to the hospital, wards set to bar even him apparating directly into the office for the sake of security. With a wan smile at the hospital workers he encountered, most of whom started whispering about him as he passed them, Harry set his course for Malfoy's private room.

He knocked twice.

"Come in."

The door creaked loudly, announcing his entrance, and Harry saw that Malfoy was staring at the ceiling, looking bored. He had a cold, hard look on his face, a mask that Harry knew very well from their youth.

It slipped away completely when Harry presented him with the small package.

"You got it?"

Harry nodded. "I know how much you need it."

Malfoy twisted to grab the offering in Harry's hands, tearing it open to retrieve the contents. He glanced back at Harry once, looking at him with disbelief, and Harry understood the sentiment. After a decade of loving to hate one another, it was rather strange to be presenting Malfoy with—it wasn't a peace offering… but it wasn't a cursed necklace, either.

Then, without another look at Harry—who decided it was time to leave just as his legs decided to stay glued in place—Malfoy was stripping. He angled his body away from Harry, undoing the buttons on his heavy robes and letting them fall back on the soft surface of the bed.

Then, inexplicably, he was unbuttoning his spelled-clean, crisp, white shirt with darting movements from his thin fingers. The buttons disappeared through the holes and then the material was being pushed to the side. Bare, pale skin emerged from behind the fabric, and Harry studiously avoided looking for proof that their sixth year had ever occurred.

Sometimes, Harry reasoned, wizards liked to wear outer robes with nothing on underneath. He wouldn't qualify Malfoy's desire. He also couldn't tear his eyes away.

The trousers, then, were tugged off slowly.

There was freedom in the way Malfoy moved, a fluidity. Harry wondered how long he'd been wearing the same robes if receiving new ones could lace his expression with such abandon.

Harry tried not to make observations, ignoring the way his fingers curled with the need to write his disobedient thoughts down.

Malfoy had a burn mark just above his left knee. His skin was, otherwise, mostly smooth and unblemished. His Mark, once dark with magic, was faded and red.

When Malfoy caught him looking, he shot Harry an angry look.

"Why are you still here?"

"I-" Harry didn't have an answer, and his heart leapt into his throat. He caught sight of a small tray beside Malfoy's bed. "I wanted to make sure you had your first dose of calming draught."

Malfoy looked suspicious, tugging on his new robes with a haste that hadn't been present before. He threw furtive looks at Harry, who tried not to allow his composure to crumble, and quickly did all the clasps up.

The new robes were dark blue and thin. They creased under the weight of Malfoy's body when he fell back, catching the material between him and the mattress. The robes hid large expanses of skin under fine material—skin that Harry wanted to explore and carefully record past the ankle and calf he could see.

Harry hated Malfoy, in that moment, for always managing to distract him. It bubbled within him, urgent and heavy.

"So?" The Malfoy drawl was back, damn it, and Harry had to resist every urge to punch Malfoy in the interest of keeping his job. Malfoy cocked an eyebrow, turning in his direction. "So?" he repeated. "Are you going to give me the potion?"

Harry fumbled with the small glass vial before managing to unstopper it. He blindly shoved it towards Malfoy, trying not to flinch when cool fingers met his as Malfoy took the bottle.

"All in one go?"

Harry nodded, watching Malfoy tip the liquid down his throat, swallowing once. It was all very neat, very clinical, but Harry found himself needing to grasp desperately at his control. Malfoy infuriated him. Something about him always made Harry's good judgement disappear.

The smooth line of his neck as it curved back just enough for Malfoy to drink was an image that wouldn't relinquish its monopoly of Harry's attention.

When they were in his office, sometimes it was okay.

Those were mandatory roles and immediate obligations where it was easy to pretend he didn't hate Malfoy as he once had. But it was just pretending. It had to be, because in that moment, Harry wanted nothing more than to grin at the twist of Malfoy's lips when the taste of the potion caught up with him. It was notoriously bitter.

Harry thought that perhaps he should stop paying so much attention to Malfoy's mouth.

"Great." His tone was sharp with scorn. "I'll see you tomorrow at noon. My office."

"'S not like I have a choice, huh?" Malfoy's words were loose and slow, already affected by the potion. He blinked blearily a few times, then settled into his pillow with a soft smile. "But this is nice."

Hoping Malfoy wouldn't notice, Harry slipped from the room on his toes, carefully closing the door behind him.

 _Two weeks left_ , he reminded himself. _Just a little more than two weeks._

If Malfoy really started resting, Harry was confident that they could make quick progress. It was a matter of working through Malfoy's triggers and relaxing his magic, which would, in turn, lower his sensitivity to the physical environment.

If Malfoy decided to be difficult in light of what had transpired—or just because he was _Malfoy_ and Harry was _Harry_ —then the task was surely going to draw out indefinitely.

With a headache potion taken from the store in his office, Harry apparated himself to his flat with relief and comfort on his mind. He had something like half an hour until he had to be back and Harry had a strange desire to take a shower.

In the hottest days of the summer, stifling even during the night, keeping a fire burning was only justified if one was travelling by floo because the eager sun did enough to provide heat. Anyways, Harry didn't like travelling that way. Instead, the cool water of his shower washed away all the strange afterimages of working with Malfoy.


	4. A Confession

**VI.**

They managed to make it through the next few sessions without big incident.

"You look well." Harry commented, and he really meant it. Malfoy looked, at the very least, put together. His nerves were not obvious to the degree that they had been. It gave Harry satisfaction to see.

Malfoy didn't respond, but raised a self-conscious hand to his hair, as though Harry might be mocking him.

"Did you sleep soundly?"

"Very."

Harry felt very pleased with that remark, overjoyed even, at the simple success of helping Malfoy with his sleep. It was always dangerous to take his work so personally, but Harry thought he hadn't really had a choice—it was always personal with Malfoy.

For some reason, his hour with Malfoy was always so much more gratifying than any other session with any other patient. Usually, his notes were bland and the pace was maddeningly slow. With Malfoy, his _observations_ , unending and detailed to the last, precise point, told him that they were making good progress.

In the space of a few short days after the start of his regimen with the Calming Draught, Malfoy had maintained their shaky truce, relaxing just a little.

"How do you feel?"

He looked mildly annoyed, lip curling. Harry raised an eyebrow, and two stubborn gazes met somewhere between them. It was almost like school, and Harry wondered if Malfoy found that as funny as he did, if he saw the glimmering potential for the animosity to end completely.

The hard expression softened just a little.

It was getting easier to get Malfoy to drop the facade, though it was still by no means easy.

Harry felt a strange satisfaction at that fact, a tiny spark that he extinguished by swiftly ignoring that he'd even noticed it. He made up for it by telling himself he liked being in a position of influence over Malfoy, though whatever the reason, he felt good with the success he'd achieved.

"I-I feel better. It's been a while. I've been sleeping enough to make up for the last two years."

"That's good." Just as Harry was going to pose another question, Malfoy interrupted with an uncharacteristic request.

"You never finished telling me—" he ran a hand through his hair. Harry's eyes followed the nervous movement, calm setting when Malfoy finally dropped his arm. Harry raised his eyebrows to prompt him to continue. "You—" Exhale. Inhale. "What happened to you after the war?"

Harry went very still. They'd dropped the topic for a number of sessions.

"I was very involved in the trials, less so in reparations, and then I took something of a… sabbatical—you know, after seven years…" he trailed off with a weak chuckle, trying to focus again. "I came back, threw myself into studying, and now we're here."

Malfoy looked unconvinced, pursing his lips in thought.

"You're not married." It was an assertion, not a question, and Harry saw grey eyes flicker to his bare left hand. A surge of heat and defensiveness rushed through Harry when he considered that Malfoy was making his own _observations_.

"No." He didn't plan to offer anything more personal. Malfoy didn't deserve it.

Harry's plans, especially the ones involving Malfoy, usually didn't go as he expected. This one was no exception.

"I think I'm entitled to something, Potter."

"Harry!"

"It's only fair."

And it was, because they'd been more than Healer and patient since the beginning. Harry, too, knew how exchange worked.

If they'd been playing chess, Malfoy would have his king in check. Harry could probably avoid it, sidestepping, but he'd be cornered eventually after relinquishing all the other important pieces. Sometimes, there was dignity in hiding the small things and distracting with a big sacrifice.

Then again, Malfoy had always known how to play Harry. And Harry had always been rubbish at chess.

"It didn't work with Ginny. She needed someone who was free to move on, not linger and rehash the war at every turn. Her brother, Fred, was killed and it hit her rather hard."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "She made it about herself, did she?"

If he hadn't known better, Harry would think Malfoy was upset with her on his behalf. As it was, Draco was probably just being terrible for the sake of being terrible.

"I don't mean—she's wonderful! We just… never worked out. It's not what you think—" Harry started. Of course, there was more to the story. His sex life, though thankfully kept out of the press, _had_ continued after Ginny. He gulped, wondering what Malfoy would say if he heard about Harry's escapades with muggles.

Men.

Only physical. Only discreet. Always so sweet.

Harry shook his head. He noticed, belatedly, that Malfoy was giving him a funny look from the corner of his eye. It was almost like he knew what Harry had been thinking and a flush borne of embarrassment and indignation at his _patient's_ judgement rose to his cheeks.

"That's quite enough about me."

Malfoy shrugged. He lingered, filling the space around Harry with something terrifying, and then he was gone—withdrawn. Malfoy averted his gaze after just slightly longer than Harry could consider casual.

Harry closed his eyes.

"Back to business, please?" His voice was strained. He hoped Malfoy wouldn't hear it, but knew beyond doubt that he would. He was a prick like that.

"Fine. You still owe me some explanations, Potter."

Something like helplessness flailed in his chest and Harry lost his grip on his crumbling composure.

"I don't owe you anything, as you keep reminding me, Malfoy!"

The recoil was obvious at a hundred paces. Malfoy cringed visibly at the name, and Harry wondered just how many things they were going to have to work through before Malfoy would finally leave his office forever.

Why did he have to ask so many questions? It was as though he wanted to get under Harry's skin in all the most infuriating ways.

They had too much history and, for a moment, Harry lost hope of ever succeeding. He abandoned that train of thought when he realized Malfoy was sharing it with him. The other man looked ready to run, gripping the armrest and pressing nails into the fabric. He'd gone pale. His head turned minutely, eyes darting to the door.

"Don't call me that," he said. "I'm—I don't deserve that name. My father—"

He pushed off the chair, eyes stormy and forehead creased.

"Can I come back later? I need… time."

Harry floundered.

Professionalism, right.

Merlin, it was just so difficult.

He'd obviously struck a nerve and, as his anger drained out of him, he was left with guilt and conflicting emotions. While he wanted to let Malfoy have his privacy, he doubted he could let the potentially unstable man roam the hospital and maintain a clear conscience.

"Stay. We don't have to talk. I have some papers to fill out, anyway. Some calm would do us both good."

Malfoy's look was inscrutable. He curled his lip, the movement looking stiff and lacking emotion. Then, with a shaky breath that Harry practically _felt_ rip apart the air between them, Malfoy dropped heavily into the seat.

Ten minutes of silence went by. Harry spent them sneaking glances at Malfoy. The curve of his jaw when he was clenching it called out to Harry. There was something artful about the smoothness of his neck, exposed at the hem of his new robes.

Next, his shoulders pressed back into the plush of the chair. His head was thrown back as he looked to the ceiling, and Harry was painfully aware of every time Malfoy swallowed because his Adam's apple bobbed. The shadows that lined the expanse of skin shifted with every small movement.

Harry's hand shook and he could barely finish a sheet of a report, not even after resigning himself to sloping, messy penmanship.

His mind was elsewhere, racing and trying to piece together the information Malfoy had given him. It was a puzzle whose completion seemed to be the driving factor behind his existence. It had always been all or nothing with Malfoy.

Why was he so frightened? He was hypersensitive. His nightmares haunted him. His name seemed to scald him. It all traced back to the war. Still, Harry couldn't place it to anything particular. His memories of Malfoy seemed hazy at best, tinged with age and childhood anger.

He would have to pick it apart.

Malfoy didn't deserve to suffer, not any longer. Still, Harry wasn't sure his own interest was altogether noble. There was something addictive about Malfoy's problems.

Harry's lip twitched when he mindlessly tickled it with the end of his quill, which he passed between hands as he thought.

The senior Malfoys had been sentenced to life in Azkaban.

Voldemort. The ministry taking his parents away. Escape. Loss of control, followed by his return.

Harry only assumed that Malfoy's reappearance had been motivated by his uncontrollable magical fits, but what had begun prompting those?

His thoughts circled back around.

Two years.

"Stop that, Potter." Malfoy's voice was sharp, and Harry had to still all of his movement before he realized what Malfoy was talking about.

He'd been rubbing at his scar. It was pain-free, but thinking about the war often sent his hand back to the physical memento.

"Call me Harry, yeah? I already call you Draco."

The blond considered it, cocking his head to the side. Harry watched as his hair, lank and dirty, tumbled as well.

"Fine."

They lapsed into silence again and Harry made no pretence of working, instead folding his fingers together and leaning his chin on them. Studiously, he watched Malfoy— _Draco…?_ It would take some getting used to—until he caught the other man's attention.

Malfoy coughed. "What?"

"Would you tell me about the dreams? Something." Malfoy's chin was set in defiance, and Harry grasped for anything that might propel them forward. "What's your most vivid dream from the last two years or so? Perhaps something that reoccurs?"

"I do recall the day the snatchers brought you, Weasley, and Granger to the Manor."

Harry swallowed hard. Why did it always come back to him?

"What do you remember, in particular?"

"Every time I dream, I remember feeling lost."

Silence stretched out.

"And?" Harry inquired.

"I couldn't hand you over, not even when my life depended on it." He swallowed. "I've noticed I'm really bad at taking care of myself, actually."

He looked casually at his right hand, picking at a hangnail with his thumb. Harry ignored the posturing.

"Who usually takes care of you?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I get by."

"What do you need help with?"

"I forget things. I get caught up—I don't need to leave my flat, not so often. I'm frightened of—"

He broke off and Harry wished he could know what terrified Malfoy. It was vital—to the progress of their sessions, not to satisfy Harry's curiosity. Of course not.

"Draco," Harry said, earning him the burn of Malfoy's gaze, "with me, you don't have to be frightened. We'll take it slowly, but you need to talk about it."

The effort of maintaining his Healer image was not as great as Harry would have expected, though he was split, echoes of habits from a lifetime ago still tugging at him. Malfoy looked at him with distrust, a struggle playing out within him.

"For a year," he began slowly, "I wished for death. It didn't matter what form it took. I would have gladly taken torture over the unending hours of anticipation and terror. I wanted to lose my mind, Pott— _Harry_."

"And now?"

"Now," Draco whispered, "I worry that when I close my eyes, I'll never open them again—I'll lose control of everything. I feel like the floor will swallow me from below, like it'll catch me by the knee and _pull_ —"


	5. Workaholic

**VII.**

Ginny had always accused him of bringing his responsibilities home with him. She'd complained at his constant studying, back when he'd lived with the Weasleys. Once, she had told him that he always carried the war within arm's reach as though the suffering comforted him.

She had never understood that it wasn't the suffering, it was the recovery.

Still, it was undeniable that Malfoy's suffering was stuck firmly on his mind. He couldn't avoid it. The image of Malfoy's fear had been burned into his mind's eye.

Inside of him, the desire to help Malfoy burned with great intensity. There was too much weakness in Malfoy for Harry to take much pleasure in his pain, no matter how much he wanted to. It was a maddening assignment to figure Malfoy out and, on top of that, he was actually meant to _help_. The situation was absurd in its reality and in Harry's strong desire to fulfill it.

Harry wondered if Hermione had felt so strongly for school assignments, because he recognized her in his single-mindedness. He'd have to wait to ask—her message for his birthday had arrived late, through the Muggle post from some tropical island, Ron's signature attached hastily. He couldn't begrudge the lovebirds.

Merlin, he wished there was someone he could consult. His mind was full.

Too many questions lingered unanswered for the situation to drop its grip on Harry's concentration. One glaring detail that was amiss, in Harry's mind, was that Malfoy hadn't demanded his wand again.

It was his right, as a wizard, to have one. Though Harry had the authority to deny him for up to seven days on grounds of instability, it was unimaginable to Harry that the great Draco Malfoy would forget to request his wand again.

Then again, Harry had to understand the reluctance as pride. He'd already lost his wand once to Harry. To ask for it again would be shameful.

Again, his thoughts came back to the dream that Draco had mentioned. That night with the snatchers—his most poignant memory in two years.

Harry'd taken his wand that night.

Hermione had been tortured. Ron had nearly gone mad with fear.

And now they were married and happy, and Harry couldn't be prouder. He and Ginny had even helped at the wedding, forging a tentative friendship after several months of silence. He was glad she was doing well with Dean.

 _But where's Malfoy's happy ending?_

Harry was shocked by the thought, wrenching his train of thought back to its rightful course, thoroughly unnerved.

He rather missed Ginny's company and loud presence sometimes, though their break-up had been for the best. Not even mentioning his inclination for the same sex, they were two hot-tempered people. She worked away from the city, he worked nights… it would never have worked.

The reminiscing came to a firm stop when he tripped over an unpacked box, and he struggled to regain his footing. He'd moved from Grimmauld, dark with its ancient magic and crazy portraits, very recently.

Harry liked having a place to himself, though the quiet flat it was lonelier than he'd imagined. Hot, admittedly, but quiet so that his thoughts seemed loud in comparison.

The heat wave continued, and Harry considered getting robes like Malfoy's that were made for the humidity and wouldn't stifle him when he stole out of his messy flat for a walk in the foggy summer evenings.

 _Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy._

His mind buzzed with the name, only to correct himself immediately with a symphony of: _call him Draco. Draco, Draco, Draco._

Their strange dynamic had little to do with patient-Healer relationships and everything to do with their past. That elusive past on which Harry couldn't place a finger because it twisted like smoke, just out of his reach. Something big was haunting Malfoy and, although he'd spoken briefly about his family and his fears, Harry had the feeling that they hadn't covered the most important topic.

He also suspected that Malfoy knew what they were skirting around. Malfoy was stalling, perhaps. Harry empathized, never having been one to discuss his emotions, especially not with former enemies.

How strange that Malfoy had once seemed to be his biggest rival.

Harry's struggle to even remember why was embarrassing. It felt wrong to give it up, though.

An owl landed on his windowsill and alerted him to its presence by pecking at the glass—a tinny _tap tap tap—_ and Harry mindlessly waved a wand at it to allow the bird entry. When he realized what he had done, the letter was already at his feet and the owl was flying back out into the hazy horizon.

He pushed the letter with his toe, a heavy worry curling in his gut. He stooped down, trying to talk himself into picking it up, but it took him three counts to three before he finally managed to move a muscle.

With shaking hands, heart in his throat, Harry opened the first one.

The letter read as usual:

 _Be careful, Potter. We're always watching and we're waiting to strike. It shouldn't be long now. You can change the route you walk every day—we'll always find you._

 _For your sake, don't return to Madam Malkin's. Then again, it probably won't matter. Soon, you will understand—you will be put in your place, just as you deserve._

 _Warmest regards,_

 _The Occluded_

Harry balled the threatening letter up and threw it towards the bin, where it hit the rim and toppled onto the floor just outside it. Harry removed his glasses, rubbing at his eyes with his hand.

There was a choppiness about the missives that didn't just come from the way cut-out letters from the Daily Prophet were pasted haphazardly, as in a ransom note. It was always harsh and threatening, and stiflingly, mockingly polite.

For a while, he'd thought it might be Grimmauld's darkness that was bringing threats to his doorstep every morning. He hadn't even connected them in the beginning, believing them to be isolated incidents. Then, they'd started being sent to his office.

He'd moved partly in hopes that the barrage of unsavoury mail would be deterred, but it seemed to have found its way to him again.

Ron hadn't been able to find anything out on the group in question, even with his Auror sources, and since there had never been an overt attack, Harry could almost fool himself into thinking it was nothing. Being the Boy-Who-Lived was hard.

Trying to put the worry from his mind, Harry grabbed a cold sandwich from the fridge. Food distracted his stomach and, in turn, his mind, so he chewed and thought of Malfoy. The usual.

 **VIII.**

"Good morning," Harry offered as Malfoy stepped into the room.

A nod was his response, but it was a step up from what they had started with. Harry didn't have the energy to feel anything but relief that they were still moving forwards.

"Today, I wanted to go back to that night at Malfoy Manor—forgive me for using the name."

He watched Malfoy's reaction closely. Malfoy's eyes narrowed just enough to be noticeable, his back stretched in a practiced fashion, straightening his shoulders. It was with very great care that Malfoy sat down.

"I don't have any more to say."

Harry waited, watching Malfoy squirm under his gaze. He reached into the pocket of his robes and Harry saw him fumble with something inside—probably ice.

That meant he'd made Malfoy uncomfortable—not necessarily a bad thing, but it indicated that he needed to tread carefully. After more than a week of careful observation—more careful even than sixth year—Harry thought he could tell those small ticks apart.

"Can you describe your wand to me?"

Harry didn't need to look at the wand analysis report to know. He'd had the description stuck in his mind since Ollivander's assessment.

"10 inches, hawthorn and unicorn hair."

"Good." Harry tried to keep his voice soothing.

It was only the result of great determination on Harry's part that he'd become a Healer, and he knew from training and experience that when he wanted to work up to a point, he had to do it very slowly. He'd liked the training, relishing the control it gave him to curb his temper.

"Do you remember purchasing it?"

Draco shrugged. "I don't see why that—"

Harry reached for his quill and pointed it at Draco as though it were a wand. "Please, just answer the question."

"Yes." His nose twitched. "It was the first day I met you."

 _Merlin._ Did all of Malfoy's memories involve him?

"Did you use magic at the Manor?"

A curt nod, but Harry knew he'd done well to drop the _Malfoy._

"You grew up very closely with magic, is that correct?"

"I loved to read books from…. from Father's library. And then I experimented with some basic spells."

Harry beamed. "Wonderful. Whose wand did you use after the battle with the snatchers?"

Draco's chest sagged for a moment with a quick exhalation. "My mother's."

It was little more than a whisper.

"How did it feel?"

"Incomplete." The answer was quick, right on the tip of Draco's tongue, ready for Harry's question.

"When I gave your wand back after the trial," Harry started, "how did that feel?"

Silence.

"Draco." Harry was insistent, having seen the way Draco froze in place. "How did it feel?"

Malfoy just shrugged, pushing his toes against the floor so that his knees rose slightly. Defensive. Harry's critical eye swept over the gesture.

"It felt good."

 _Lie_. Harry could hear it in the waver of his voice, see it in the fumbling of Malfoy's fingers in his pocket, and feel it in the precarious danger of the silence that followed.

In a hushed tone, leaning forward to Malfoy, Harry said, "Describe that feeling."

Harry knew Draco would have nothing to say. If he tried to lie again, Harry would certainly know.

"You have to understand—" Draco's voice cracked, taking Harry by surprise. Harry's heart was pounding, so close to an explanation. He could feel Malfoy's fear as though he were using Legilimency.

"That wand… I did… I _nearly_ did so many terrible things. I couldn't take the wand back."

Harry blinked. "Explain that."

"After you returned my wand, I disappeared…"

"To France," Harry helped.

Malfoy cast his gaze down, all jerky movements and heaving breaths, "I lived as a muggle." He closed his eyes. "I've hardly used my wand since the war."

Harry couldn't respond.

"I've only touched it when necessary to make my dreamless sleep." His voice was hoarse, rasping at the end of the sentence.

Reality and what Draco was saying—for they couldn't be one and the same—were violently ripped apart, leaving Harry confused.

"A muggle?"

It was almost like Malfoy thought Harry would object to that decision. It wasn't judgement, though, it was simply shock.

"Didn't you live in your family home in France?"

"No." Malfoy crossed his arms, withdrawing his hand from his pocket to lean back in the new position. "I'd just hoped you would think so."

"Wow." Everything did make a little more sense.

"I know."

"But that—that means…" Harry let out a long breath, unable to resist reaching for his quill to scribble down some thoughts. He felt Malfoy's inquisitive stare on his skin as he wrote.

"Right," he said a few moments later, "I'd reckon it was a combination of not using your magic and not resting that caused your to become so volatile. Am I right to guess that magical instability was the reason you returned to the wizarding world? Fatigue and stress can play a large role in that, as well as trauma."

Malfoy pinched a tendril of hair between two fingers and twisted it.

"I thought… I don't know what I thought. I hoped being around magic would make me relax."

"It _is_ safer here. Draco, I lived in the muggle world for a long time. It's dangerous to be told your magic is wrong."

But muggles hadn't been the ones telling him he was wrong—it had been Malfoy himself.

His eyes met Harry's, and there was something bright just behind the surface that Harry wished he could understand. He struggled to find malice in his intentions. Harry had surpassed that, at some point.

"Yes. It's much safer here."

"How did you spend your time in muggle France?"

"I did many things," Draco said evasively. "I had money, so I didn't work. I walked around a lot. I made some friends, but it's hard to maintain anything when it's impossible to talk about the past. The… last few months have been quiet."

Harry knew what that was like. Hell, he'd lived his childhood in isolation.

"And the ice…?" He had to ask.

Draco looked despondent. "I bought it, already charmed, about six months ago." He glanced up, nervous. "It helped."

"Ah." Harry gave him a moment to breathe again. "Draco, would you accept your wand if I were to return it right now?"

Harry opened the first drawer, the tiny strip of wood looking minuscule in the mostly-empty space.

"I—Do you think it would help?"

Harry's hand closed around the wand, pulling it out slowly as he spoke. "I think we need to re-train your body. With natural functions—magical and chemical—disrupted for so long, we'll have to ease you back into it as we untangle the rest."

Draco nodded, swallowing hard. Again, Harry's eyes followed the bob of his throat. His usual explanation to himself—that he was drawn to Malfoy's weak points, mind trained to want to attack him—lacked vitriol.

"Do you think it's safe?"

"I wouldn't be returning it if I didn't."

With that, Harry stood and offered the wand to Draco, who rose and came closer. There was a moment of hesitation before his fingers touched the wood. His eyes closed as he took it from Harry's grip, sliding it slowly between his fingers until it was all Malfoy's again.

Draco held it in proper duelling position, thin fingers perfectly arranged around the end. His wrist looked stiff, though his preparation was immaculate. Harry had to admire the energy that coursed from Malfoy to the wand. There was just something powerful about the way every muscle seemed angled towards the tip of the wand, poised for action.

He leaned forward just slightly, ready to strike. Harry had to stop himself from shivering at the sight.

Malfoy froze, the picture of peace.

Then he gasped for air, a desperate sound. A loud clatter sounded out. His eyes were flying back open, wild and frantic, and Malfoy's face was deathly pale.

He took a few steps back, hand immediately searching his pocket. He pulled out the ice cubes and pressed them to his forehead.

"I can't do it, Potter."

"Draco—you can."

In that moment, Malfoy was the poster boy of suffering, one lip worried by his teeth, forehead leaning into his hand. His other arm circled around his own waist, holding himself together.

Disrupting the silence, Harry's fireplace suddenly crackled. It glowed green with magical flames as though someone were calling him. Both pairs of eyes widened, meeting before moving to the unexpected interruption.

Malfoy's eyes went impossibly round, fixating on the flickering.

As though in slow motion, Malfoy's mouth fell open and he dropped the ice cubes. His body clattered to the floor in the same second, falling just as lifelessly.

Harry was already moving, wand pointed and mouth spilling wards and spells at the fire.

There was dizzying movement, energy shifting in the room. Heat licked through the air, unnatural and dry. The green still glowed, and Malfoy's pale skin reflected the sickly light. Harry stared into the fire, hoping for an answer.

His mind raced. He didn't understand. Hermione would have, no doubt. But this one was only up to him.

Using his body as a physical shield between the fire and the helpless, panicked Malfoy, Harry waited.

An eternity later, the fire finally went out. Time continued to tick away. Then nothing.

No one stepped through. No one firecalled.

The fireplace was supposed to be set against incoming calls during sessions. What had that been?

It was a worry for another time, because Draco was rocking back and forth. Just as he caught Harry's eye, Harry ran over to him and dropped his wand arm. Malfoy's knees were bent and pulled in towards his chest. He was muttering under his breath.

Harry whispered a surreptitious _accio_ , closing his hand around the ice, and raised it to Malfoy's forehead.

That time, the charmed cubes didn't melt, instead making Harry's fingers numb with cold. Malfoy's breathing, thankfully, returned to normal rather quickly. Harry knew what to expect, and it was a step forward, at least, that Malfoy wasn't shouting or writhing.

 _Fire. I'm so stupid—Malfoy was right about that, at least. Fire, of course._

When he had a moment to think, Harry put the pieces together.

Fiendfyre. Hogwarts. Crabbe's spell in the Room of Requirement. Harry's rescue.

It made sense—from the sensitivity to heat to the resistance to hearing about Hogwarts.

Though it was an incredible shame that Malfoy had been so traumatized, it was understandable. Now that Harry knew what he was dealing with—and he could feel that fire had been the missing piece to the full picture—it would be much easier to begin to treat.

Luckily, fire was mostly avoidable in daily life.

All Malfoy had to do was start slowly, just as he would with spell-casting. Harry would help him. It wasn't about revenge; Malfoy needed his help.

He could hardly contain his burning desire to do _something,_ robes suddenly too tight around him.

Every thought Harry had was thrown from his mind when Malfoy wrapped shaking arms around him, nearly knocking him off balance and throwing him to the floor. The world seemed to stop, incomprehensible.

"I've got you."

Moments passed, and Harry found himself uncomfortable with the proximity to Malfoy. In a good way, which was all the more confusing.

He caught himself about to say _Malfoy_ , corrected himself, and then asked, "Draco?"

But he was still somewhere else, locked in his mind. Harry wondered if he was reliving the broom ride out of the Room of Requirement and allowed the embrace. Still, he trailed the ice over the skin he had access to, over the crest of his nose and into the dip of his cheeks. It was a pattern with Harry following the same path over and over again.

Some time later, Malfoy released him and returned to full control of his faculties. He looked ashamed, though Harry was quick to reassure him.

"It's all right," he said a few times. Draco only looked away every time he said it.

"It's usually much worse," Draco offered after a few attempts at words. Harry clung to every one of them. His thirst to know his once-enemy was overpowering. "It felt like it was going to go much worse than it did today. I think it was easier because of you."

Harry nodded in understanding. He was treading dangerous water, allowing a patient to think he was something special instead of a means to a greater end. It had to be the calming draught at work. Or something.

A knock at Harry's door interrupted any other comments they would have liked to make.

"I'm sorry, Healer Potter, but you have one more session scheduled before your shift is finished," said his secretary, bowing his head as he spotted that Draco was still there, still seated beside him, still so close to Harry.

Harry nodded at the reprieve and leaned back against his desk, balancing his weight on his hands.

"You're in luck, Draco," he said, clearing his throat. "We both get a chance to recover. Take your potion. We'll continue tomorrow. I'd like to start talking about the nightmares and to start some magic exercises."

Malfoy nodded, face pinched with stress. He gathered his robes around him as though they could protect him, darting his eyes to the fireplace quickly.

Harry cursed himself again for not having realized it earlier. Fire.

As Malfoy's back turned to him, Harry spotted Draco's wand, off to the side. He quickly snatched it up.

"Don't forget this," he called out, taking a few steps to overtake Malfoy.

Harry turned it so that he held the tip and offered Malfoy the blunt end, just enough space between them for the wand to fit. Malfoy's fingers wrapped around it again, and then he pushed the wand into his pocket.

"Thank you," he said, then brushed past Harry to leave the office, bumping their shoulders together in the process.

Harry didn't think he'd ever heard Malfoy say that to him seriously.

For a moment, he was almost offended about that, ready to shout at Malfoy and tell him so, but it occurred to Harry that he hadn't been kind to Malfoy either. The push and pull of their interactions was sure to drive him mad. If it hadn't already, he thought.

Woeful that he still had another patient, Harry walked back to his seat and ruffled through his files until he found the one in question.

"Come in!" he shouted, hardly looking up.

The woman sat in the comfortable chair and Harry carefully but disinterestedly listened to what she had to say. He wondered, in the privacy of his own mind when she became particularly long-winded, when Hermione was coming back. He rather enjoyed the night shifts—mornings just didn't cut it for him.

Except for Malfoy. What else was new?


	6. Heroes

**IX.**

Harry looked at the time, fingers curling around his mug of coffee to bring it to his lips. It was only lukewarm, but he took a long drag of the dark liquid, hoping to finally feel its effects. He realized with a start that he'd been working for close to twelve hours after being called in just after midnight the previous night for an altercation in the wing.

Of course, he'd suspected Malfoy. Yes, it had been more than ten days but his subconscious had obviously been eager to jump on the chance to be right in its suspicion. He blamed it on sleepiness and recent confusion regarding Malfoy. The idiot had always been wholly distracting.

A sharp knock sounded out just as the clock read the dreaded hour: noon. Harry sighed, leaning forward with the weight of his body and his fatigue. His exhaustion forced him to replay, in his mind, the events of the earlier night. He almost didn't want to call Malfoy in for his session, a wave of embarrassment hitting him.

He'd barged in, ready to accuse Malfoy of... whatever wrongdoing he'd been involved in.

Instead of the face of someone who attacked two other patients, however, Harry'd faced a sleeping Malfoy. Soft hair that fanned out onto the pillow, covers drawn to his chin, mouth slightly open, and nothing that Harry could use to justify his own anger to himself.

Of course, Harry had left without a word to deal with the real problem, but he worried that Malfoy had noticed his entrance.

"Come in!" he called, swallowing hard against the nervousness.

Harry was wary, watching every one of Malfoy's movements from the corner of his eye. He tried to act normally, desperate not to give away his earlier blunder.

"Your office is cooler," Malfoy said. Harry didn't know if the casual tone was normal. Grey eyes darted around the room as though to find the source of the cold air. To Harry, it seemed he was looking for a reason to bring up the topic. His eyes narrowed momentarily before landing on Harry. "Why?"

"I've been here for ages." His throat dried, so he coughed once. "I must have left a few charms running for longer than needed."

"Hmm," Malfoy was noncommittal. His shoulder were set, back straight, and Harry's mind whirred with thoughts of how to distract him.

In truth, he'd set the temperature of the office just a bit cooler than usual for Malfoy's comfort, but admitting to that would probably be worse than telling Malfoy how innocent he'd looked asleep.

 _Fuck_.

"What are you waiting for?" Malfoy was insistent, tone sharp—or perhaps it was in Harry's head.

"Sorry?"

"You're acting strangely, Po- _sorry_ , Harry."

Harry froze.

"Did you just—"

"Yes." Malfoy looked annoyed.

"Harry?"

"That is your name."

"You?"

" _I'm_ Draco. Are you sure you aren't the patient here?"

"You used my name."

"I don't see why it needs to be cause for comment."

"Right."

"Right."

"Of course it doesn't." Harry grinned.

Inside, Harry the Healer was more than satisfied, if Harry the Gryffindor was a little suspicious. With Malfoy calling him by his first name—voluntarily—it proved they were taking steps forwards, or else Malfoy was trying to trap him in something by confusing him…

"How would you like to try out some magic?" Harry asked, eager to start something a little more distracting.

"Right now?" Malfoy's voice was suddenly wavering, weaker than normal. Harry felt some control return to him and he pushed the sleepiness aside. Working with Malfoy was far too exciting, just as it always had been.

"Right now."

Malfoy lifted his chin slightly, defiantly. Then, he pursed his lips so that his face seemed much thinner and much younger.

"Have you taken your calming draught today, Malfoy?"

He shook his head at the neutral question.

"I'll call for a nurse to bring that, and then we can work. How does that sound?"

"Fine, _Harry._ " Malfoy, the prick, smirked at Harry's wide eyes. In his defense, being called by name two times in as many minutes was, frankly, overwhelming. "I don't need coddling."

Harry raised his eyebrows, unable to resist. "That's a surprise to me."

Of course, the real surprise came when Malfoy cracked a little smile in response. It was followed by a scowl, but the damage had been done.

Standing, Harry turned to the fireplace to place a floo call to the potions department. The potion could be sent up in moments. In that instant, he remembered the topic they hadn't yet broached since the incident a number of sessions earlier.

A look at Malfoy showed that the blond was staring right back at him with a curious expression on his face, watching as he stood in place.

"An owl." Harry said, more to himself than to Malfoy, jerkily turning to the window. "I'll send the request by owl. It should be quick."

Swiping some parchment from his desk, Harry scribbled a little note, sealing it with a small poke from his wand for authentication. Satisfied, he leaned out through the window. With two fingers in his mouth, he whistled loudly, calling an owl to him. It flew, letter gripped in its talons, with Harry's strict instructions to return only with a potion.

"Why're you scared of owls?" Malfoy's voice pierced Harry's back, and Harry ran a hand through his hair before turning to face Malfoy again.

"What do you mean?"

"I've just noticed…" Malfoy looked thoughtfully to the window behind Harry. "You don't like to touch them and you've got the same pile of mail on your desk as you did when I first had to come in here."

Harry's gaze landed on the mentioned pile.

"That's, er, that's my fault. I don't normally have so much work. Hermione, my colleague here in the wing, is away on her honeymoon, so I've taken on some of her patients in her absence." He shrugged, leaning on one shoulder against the wall. "I haven't even had a spare moment to think, if I'm honest." He paused, holding back a sigh. "What is it _now,_ Draco?"

Malfoy schooled his features immediately, but the little twist of his lips hadn't been missed by Harry.

"Nothing." Harry waited. "All right, I just realized that I might have been stuck with Granger instead of you—"

"She's a wonderful Healer!"

Malfoy was unperturbed. "That isn't what I'm trying to say."

Again, there was a pause. Malfoy looked down at his hands.

"I prefer you, that's all."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Nothing." There was a redness spreading over Malfoy's cheeks that Harry couldn't understand. Even if he'd been sitting, ready to write down observations, he wouldn't have known what to make of the comment.

Harry hummed, unsure of what to say.

"So, they're procreating now."

Harry winced, and Malfoy did a second later. "Not yet… but I'm sure it's ahead."

"Lucky them." There was a twinge of something unrecognizable in the way his lips spat the words out, though the uncomfortable stillness around them was not eliminated.

"Well," Harry began, trying to find his way back to safe territory. "As it happens, I'm not scared of owls."

Malfoy looked relieved at the change in topic.

"I had an owl, but she was killed."

"I'm sorry."

The situation was bizarre, Harry found himself thinking. Still, he couldn't stop the words that continued to spill over.

"Another part of it is that, as a _hero,_ " the word twisted in his mouth, "I find myself receiving a lot of mail. Though you always used to tell everyone that I love attention, the opposite is true. I like helping people, but I never wanted adoration or credit for things _I didn't do._ "

Malfoy's eyes were firmly locked on his fingers, which had tangled together.

"P-Harry?" The slip was almost unnoticeable, which, in itself, screamed for Harry's attention.

"Yes?"

The silence between them was fragile but heavy.

"I don't think I've apologized for the way I acted in school."

"Neither have I."

Their eyes met. Malfoy looked away first.

"I can't shift all the blame from myself, so I have to say—that is—I'm sorry."

Harry nodded casually as his pulse raced in his ears.

"My behaviour was caused by my pride, my father's expectations, and immense pressure. It might not seem—"

Harry cut him off before he could get angry about another person in his life thinking he _didn't understand_. "I know. I was under pressure myself."

They sat in silence, but something clicked in Harry's mind, so he continued. "Draco, I think you've been hiding from your magic because of its potential. You've seen it being used for evil." A nod. "No offence, but I don't know if you've realized that you lack that same potential. You aren't your father, you aren't going to hurt anyone."

Resting his chin on his hands, elbows on his desk, Harry waited.

Malfoy looked shaken. "I know that? I just saw so _much_."

His eyes fluttered shut, pained.

It struck Harry that they really were rather similar. "Draco, if you want to put the past behind you, you need to start moving forward. I understand your hesitance not to hurt—I've been protecting people all my life, and sometimes it seemed I did more harm than good. Still, wallowing never helped. When I decided to be a Healer, I realized how much I enjoy helping people. No prophecy, no Voldemort, just me."

"I don't have anything like that." It was a whisper, and Malfoy placed his hands on his knees, leaning forward to share the secret.

"We'll work to it," Harry promised just as quietly. "We've worked to identify some areas that need help, and I think it's truly time to take that first active step."

The fear on Malfoy's face was familiar. Harry'd saved him once, could he do it again? The softness that was etched permanently in his memory—Malfoy's sleeping figure— told him yes, he'd do everything in his power to make things right.

The Boy-Who-Lived's job never ended, did it? For once, Harry didn't mind.

The knock on the window came soon after Harry laid out the plan for Malfoy. They would begin with simple charms: levitation, colour-changing, amplification, and their respective counter-charms.

Harry watched with all too much interest as Malfoy drank the potion, but there was a lot on his mind and he blamed it all on not sleeping, writing it off as a fluke.


	7. Teaching

**X.**

The plan was to work on the magic for three sessions in a row and then see if more time was needed.

Even after a solid first day, Malfoy was still nervous. He hadn't successfully cast even the simplest _leviosa_.

"Stop staring, Potter!"

Harry didn't comment on the name.

"I have to look to tell you what needs to be done!"

Malfoy dropped his wand arm, though he was careful not to touch the wand to the side of his leg, Harry noticed.

"It's hopeless," he said, "isn't it?"

Harry shook his head. "You'll do it."

In Harry's mind, once they tackled Malfoy's sensitivity and magical instability, control would return. Then, they'd be in a position to start working with Malfoy's phobia of fire.

"Let's go back to repetition," Harry tried. "I'll even do it with you. Together: _wingardium leviosa, wingardium leviosa, wingardium leviosa…_ "

Reciting a mantra could work to calm Malfoy, focus his mind, and cope with the blocked energy.

"Shut up," he snarled, cutting off Harry's chanting. "I'm shaking, Harry."

The discreet monitoring charm that displayed Malfoy's vitals to Harry was, actually, telling him that Malfoy's blood pressure was high. It could have been a side effect of the calming potion as it worked to regulate heart rate, but Malfoy's worry probably also contributed.

He couldn't seem to gather any control to collect himself. Magic was part skill from practice, part power, but also heavily depended on will. The psychology of magic had been very interesting to follow, when he'd begun studying, and that fact had pushed him to finish his studies in a condensed period and end up at the top. For once, it had because of his hard work, Hermione at his side.

Harry thought about it, rolling the word around in his mind. Control. Their relationship had always been a struggle for it. For them, it was always about dominance, be it relative or absolute.

Control.

Without thinking too much, Harry stood and circled around Malfoy slowly.

"Lift your arm and assume duelling position," Harry instructed.

Malfoy, arm unsteady, raised it. He tensed, slowly, as though feeling the slide of Harry's gaze over his skin.

"We'll say it together, right?"

Malfoy nodded, swallowing before parting his lips. Harry watched them move to form the words of the spell.

"On three. One, two, three. _Wingardium leviosa, wingardium leviosa—_ Draco, I don't hear you." A very small bead of sweat escaped from Malfoy's fringe, trickling just down the side of his face.

Harry stopped his movement when he caught Malfoy's profile exactly. Malfoy's eyes moved to the side to see him.

"Eyes forward, wand up," Harry said. Malfoy obeyed.

"Harry—"

"Malfoy, you're going to listen and do as I say. We're trying something here."

A small nod.

"Shift your legs a little wider."

Malfoy did as he was asked, balancing his weight more securely.

"Bend your knees. Good. Again, we'll repeat the words. One," Malfoy's shoulders rose with a small breath, "two," Harry's stomach clenched, "three."

" _Wingardium leviosa, wingardium leviosa, wingardium leviosa._ " They spoke together, words joining in the air. The spell was as familiar as breathing, but Harry could see the panic in Malfoy's eyes when it was clear that it wasn't working.

"This one," Harry said. "Try to cast it. One, two, three!"

" _Wingardium leviosa!"_ Malfoy's wand sailed gracefully through the air, his words precise and clear. His intonation was perfect, his stance strong. Harry could see the effort behind the movement, the moisture that was showing through the thin material that stuck to Malfoy's back.

The ice cube on the countertop didn't move.

"Fuck!"

Harry was shocked into movement when Malfoy tried to storm past him. He stepped in Malfoy's path, causing them to bump chests.

"Get out of my way, Ha-Potter."

Harry stepped to the side with him, not allowing him to pass. They were close, and Harry could feel the nervous heat that radiated from Malfoy. He was angry, that much was clear, but he looked embarrassed. His breath came in short puffs that Harry felt against the skin on his cheek, brushing softly.

"You can't run away," he said. "I won't let you do this. We have to face this. I'll even help you."

Malfoy looked uncertain, narrowing his eyes at Harry. They stayed there, altogether too close, for too many seconds for Harry not to take note. Malfoy looked hesitant to step back, and a flash of annoyance sparked in his eyes when Harry took the initiative to do so.

Something crazy occurred to Harry.

"Malfoy," he said, voice low and serious. "Freeze."

Confusion and a trust that made Harry ache for no particular reason burned bright in Malfoy's eyes. He relaxed, rocking back on his heels.

"Fine." He exhaled sharply.

Harry circled him again, a small radius keeping him within arm's reach of Malfoy. The blond was stiff in front of him.

Then, Harry pressed right up to him, body flush against Malfoy's. Draco's.

"What are you—"

"Shut up, Malfoy." Harry whispered into his ear, close enough to feel him shy away from the tickle of hot air.

There was a brief moment in which Harry was sure Draco would wrench away from him, but it never arrived. In fact, Harry felt him relax against him, straightening his back so that it was as close to Harry's chest as possible.

Harry realized he hadn't really thought the idea through.

"Er…" his voice was weak. "Let's try the spell again. Turn with me, slowly, and we'll raise the wand together."

Harry's shoulder was pushed back as Draco rotated, their feet shuffling as well. Harry reached one hand forward, aligning it with Draco's after he relaxed from an initial recoil. He allowed his fingers to rest against Draco's, wrapping them around the wand in a second grip.

Draco's fingers felt delicate under his, weak.

Once they faced the ice, Harry resisted the temptation to bury his face in the crook of Draco's neck—he was tired, clearly, and probably mad. Slowly, they raised the wand. It was a bit unwieldy to stand right behind Draco's slightly larger frame, but Harry stretched, practically stuck to Draco.

"Together?" Draco asked, surprising Harry.

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

As one, they breathed in, moving together as though they'd been made to fit perfectly. " _Wingardium leviosa!"_

The wand made no sound as it moved, or it was because Harry's ears were ringing with energy. There was a current that ran through them, magical and sparking, and Harry gasped, breath stolen.

 _CRASH_.

The ice cube flew right through the ceiling above the desk. A loud scream sounded out a moment later, along with some more clattering.

Harry found his cheek pressed against Malfoy's, both looking up at the ceiling in shock. After a moment of complete stillness, Harry's body was shaking. The sensation pulled him back to the present, and he realized Draco—er, Malfoy?—was laughing.

"I did it!" Joy saturated the exclamation, and Harry was so overcome with the feeling of success that he almost didn't miss Draco's warm body when the blond took a few steps forward. Almost.

Draco stopped under the hole, peering up to inspect it, then looked back at Harry with wide eyes and a wider grin.

"Harry—I…" he fumbled for words. "Fuck! I didn't think…"

Harry's ability to breathe finally returned to him. "I knew you could do it, Draco."

"Do you think I can do it again?"

There was some noise to be heard through the ceiling, angry tones that filtered through, and then sparks flew through the hole, burning blue until it was repaired.

Harry turned a smile on Draco, pushing physical memories from his mind and focusing on the success. A futile effort, but he tried.

"As long as you don't break anything else," he said.

Draco lost all control of himself, bouncing up on his toes and looking at his wand in wonder. Then, turning that same childish glee to Harry, whose breath escaped him, he returned to where Harry stood.

"Thank you, Potter."

He extended a hand to Harry, looking at him with all the openness of an eleven year old.

Harry took the hand, shaking it twice. The grip was firm, though Malfoy's fingers were still thin and rather frail, but there was an element of magic to the touch. It didn't change anything, Harry assured himself.

Still, he couldn't stop his elation—a mirror of Malfoy's—at the breakthrough.

"It's my pleasure, Malfoy."

And it was.


	8. A Friend

**XI.**

Hermione's excited energy caught onto Harry just as tightly as her arms did. The smile was infectious and the embrace was returned wholeheartedly.

"It's wonderful to see you!" she said, breathless. Her skin, sun-kissed and glowing, was darker than it had been a few weeks earlier. She seemed relaxed and happy despite the incredibly early hour.

"You look amazing, Hermione," he said.

She grinned at him. "I'm sorry Ron couldn't be here to meet you, too. He had to stay and work late—a sorry reminder that our holiday is over."

Harry shook his head. "I'll see him soon, there's no problem."

He held open the door for her so that they might both emerge from the apparition point that was in the back room of a small restaurant in muggle London. She chattered happily about the weather, commenting on the grey skies and muggy air—so different from the open skies in the Caribbean.

They emerged onto the street with a nod at the restaurant owner.

They decided to walk to the east, though the roads were winding and narrow where they'd emerged and the route was unclear.

"Ron sent me to look at some flats," Hermione said. "I hope you don't mind that I invited you along?"

"Not at all, Hermione." He considered what she'd said for a second. "Are you two planning to move to London?"

She shrugged, cocking her head to the side. "My parents were thinking of moving, actually. Ron's recent interest in muggles—I swear, he's going to turn out just like his father, which is not something I like to think about, really… Right, he's been talking to my parents a lot and he got it in his head that he's going to move them closer to us. I'll tell you, they warmed right up to him when he mentioned starting a family."

They sidestepped a streetlight and stopped at the curb, waiting for the cars to pass.

Harry's mind was just as motionless at the mention of _family._ Secrets that seemed enormous in his throat caught inside of him.

Hermione urged him forward as the light turned green before he got caught in the crowd, holding him by the elbow.

"Harry," she said carefully, "how have you been?"

He knew she'd picked up on his discomfort, ever the perceptive Healer—always better than he, though she would never say so; it was known. She wasn't asking a general question, though, that much he knew.

"I haven't been seeing anyone, if that's what you're asking."

For some reason, Draco Malfoy popped into his head, though Harry smothered the thought.

He managed to keep the blond in question out of conversation until they made it to the first flat of three. It was rather small, up on the highest level, and looked out on nothing special. Hermione appraised the narrow hallway as Harry trailed behind her.

"What do you think?" she asked him, though she wasn't really looking for an answer. "It's probably not very pleasant up here in the winter. Hmm…."

She rounded a corner and gasped.

Harry narrowly avoided bumping into her when she stopped dead in her tracks, looking at the boldly painted mural on the walls. It was a swirl of reds, oranges, and yellows that crawled around the perimeter of the kitchen.

"Maybe not," she said, just as Harry spoke.

"Draco would hate this." The comment was meant to be for himself, though keeping it internal somehow escaped him.

Hermione turned to him, eyebrow arched. "Malfoy, you mean?"

"Er… yes."

"I don't think I've heard that name from you in years," she said slowly. "What on earth do you mean?"

"Nothing," Harry answered, trying to evade the confession that would have to come.

"Have you seen him, Harry?"

He shrugged.

"When? Where? What happened?"

"It's nothing important."

Hermione looked unconvinced. She dropped the topic until they were back out on the street, apologizing to the landlord. Hermione told him that she wasn't interested twice before he understood, and they walked away from the building in silence for a few moments. They were on their way back to the apparition point, making it about halfway before turning south.

She chose that moment to ask him again.

"So, what happened with Malfoy?"

"I saw him," Harry said. "It's been a while."

She huffed. "You say that as though the two of you caught up over drinks or something, but that's hard to believe. Harry, you can trust me!"

"I know, Hermione." Harry paused, trying to word his thoughts in a way that wouldn't provoke her further. She would find out eventually, when she returned to work. "It's confidential, anyway."

"What?"

"I saw him at the hospital."

He made it a few steps, aware that she stayed stuck in place, falling back. Then, she was running to catch up with him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and he was being whirled around and pushed against the fence beside which they happened to be walking.

Slowly, so that he wouldn't miss a single syllable, she asked, "Harry, are you trying to tell me that Malfoy is a patient of yours?"

He nodded.

"And you didn't think to send him elsewhere?"

"Do you think I can't handle it?"

She stepped back, throwing her hands into the air. "I can't believe it. I'm gone for two weeks and you find _Malfoy_ , of all people… How is it possible?"

"It's fine, Hermione. We haven't killed each other."

She fixed him with a glare that he matched. "It's not healthy for you."

"I don't need you to tell me what's good for me and what isn't!"

"You do if you think it's responsible to be Malfoy's Healer after everything—"

"I've been helping him."

"For yourself or for him?"

Harry curled his fingers into fists. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"The way you treated Malfoy in school, Harry, was something isolated and done. You can't make up for it by toying with delicate matters. Healing is serious."

"Why is it hard to believe that I'm taking things seriously?"

"I don't know, Harry," she said, voice shrill, "perhaps it's because you've both tried to kill each other as many times as you've saved one another, and you're in this situation again. It's dangerous. Life or death situations, surprisingly enough, take a toll."

"I am capable of making my own decisions," Harry said heavily.

She started walking, arms crossed and jaw set. Harry waited a few moments, trying to collect himself, and then caught up to her. There were tears in her eyes.

"I'm just trying to protect you," she said. "Malfoy and you were never any good. You know that, Harry."

"Let's talk about something else," he said, working hard to keep his voice steady. He knew that, inevitably, they'd come back to the topic at some time.

Luckily, Harry had a chance to collect himself. The second flat was nearby, just beside the underground, which Hermione seemed to like.

"Have you ever taken the tube, Harry?" she asked, and everything was fixed—the tension receded, the silence finally broken.

"Never," he answered.

"I'll take you, one day," she promised.

They looked at the second flat in amicable semi-silence, only commenting on what they saw. Harry knew by the look in Hermione's eyes that she wasn't quite done with him. Her gaze lingered on him for longer than necessary, weighing something in her mind.

Of course, she waited until they were in the third flat to bring it up again, trying for tact.

"Harry," she began.

"Yes?"

She paused for a moment. "You're not… I mean… With Malfoy—you're not obsessing again, are you?"

"What?" Harry's indignation rose in his throat. "Of course I'm not! We're not in school, Hermione."

"I know, I know," her placating tone was still abrasive, rubbing against his nerves unpleasantly. "It's just that your relationship was so destructive in sixth year."

"It's different now."

"I know," she said, though he knew she didn't. "He's not… up to anything, is he? He's been gone for a while."

"France," Harry answered. "And if you're mocking me, I'll have to ask you to stop. Of course he isn't up to anything. I'm helping him."

"All right," she said, unconvinced. "If you say so. Now that I'm back, though—"

"I'm not transferring him to you."

Her eyes widened. "Why not?"

Harry didn't have a good answer. "Because."

"If he's rightfully my patient, we should follow protocol."

"We've been making good progress."

" _Harry_." There was a warning in her tone that Harry resented.

"His release is soon, anyway. It isn't worth the paperwork."

Hermione's eyes glinted at the mention. "Speaking of which, Harry," she said, smoothly sliding into the other topic Harry didn't want to touch, "have you spoken to anyone else about the letters you've been receiving?"

"Lay off, Hermione. Look, number 86. We're here, aren't we?"

"We are." She wasn't, of course, easily deterred. "You have to get to the bottom of that before it turns into something more serious. You know that."

"It'll work out," he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What aren't you telling me, Harry? You know I worry."

"Nothing, I swear. Hermione, drop it."

He said it knowing that she wasn't one to finish with a topic before examining it thoroughly. Now that they had breached it, she would probably spend her time thinking about it and start meddling, as she tended to do.

"It's personal, which means that it isn't nothing. Sometimes, it's hard to tell when something is affecting you negatively, especially when you're prone to obsession." She raised a hand to stop him. "Your obsession over him is a given, Harry."

"I'm _not_ obsessed."

"I hope you aren't, Harry, believe me." She let out a breath of air. "Ron's going to kill you."

Harry raised his chin in defiance, meeting her gaze challengingly. "He can't stop me from doing my job, silly grudges aside. Malfoy's different now."

She looked back at him thoughtfully. "You don't want me to tell him, do you?"

"I don't care. There's nothing I have to hide." He wasn't bluffing, he told himself. "Now, enough about me. Tell me more about your honeymoon." _Please_.

She gave him a long look.

"Fine, if changing the topic means that much to you—" she raised a hand at his protesting. "The weather was great, and there was a group of tourists from Spain there. One night, they started complaining about the " _luz_ ", the light, when it started getting dark. Of course, Ron took it to be an insult against me—like they were calling me _loose_ , so on the second day of our holiday, he got into a fistfight with some muggles."

Harry couldn't contain the laughter that rose at the story, imagining the red-faced Ron charging at unsuspecting muggles. "You let him fight over you?"

She shrugged, a small smile playing at her lips. "It isn't my fault he never studied Spanish. _Honestly_."

"How is Ron, anyway?"

Hermione grinned. "He's great. Relaxing was wonderful." Her brow creased when her expression grew troubled. "Hopefully, we'll be out of Molly's hair soon, and then we can really settle in."

"Marriage seems to suit you," he commented.

"Thank you," she answered. Then, leaning closer to him, she whispered, "I think it's the sex."

Harry recoiled, pulling a face. "And that's where I stop being interested," he said. "Hermione, that was terrible."

She probably didn't hear him over her laughter. Harry joined in soon enough.

 **XII.**

Harry was in a good mood by the time he finished with Hermione, despite the hiccups. She'd been good company, despite the early hour and he apparated to the Hospital for the last of his share of Hermione's shifts, a mid-morning to mid-afternoon one.

As he climbed the stairs, deciding it was more rewarding than taking the lift, Harry tried to focus himself on his work. He had three patients to meet.

The first was Draco.

Just as Harry sat at his desk and pulled out a fresh notepad and his usual quill, the door burst open. Draco, who stood just behind, stared at him with glowing skin that, finally, looked scrubbed clean. For once, Harry could see the aristocratic upbringing that Draco had boasted about for so long.

Perhaps it was an effect of the dark blue robes or perhaps it was the way Malfoy was holding himself, but he was confident and brilliant. A brightness illuminated the sharp cut of his features from the inside, softening them.

Harry stood to greet him, caught up on the strong lines of Draco's posture and the confidence in his stride.

"Draco! You—"

The blond cut him off. "I've been trying some more spells," he said, the words bursting from him.

"And it went well?" Harry knew it had, judging by Draco's mood.

"Very." Draco took his usual seat with a flourish, shaking his hair back and out of his face. It was clean and shining, healthy-looking like the rest of him.

"Describe it to me."

Draco took a breath, settling into the seat. Harry marvelled at Draco's lowered guard displayed—he wasn't sure he could have been as casual if the situation had been reversed.

"I transfigured thread to needles and then back, changed the thread's colour, and then levitated it exactly where I meant to. I continued to try the spells, working on heavier objects, and then levitated my bed!"

Harry's eyes were wide by the time Draco finished listing what he'd done. "That's incredible progress for the space of twenty-four hours!"

"Thank you."

Harry smiled at him, but Draco wasn't finished.

"You were the one that got my magic flowing again, Harry."

"What do you mean?" Harry feigned ignorance.

Draco sighed, tilting his head down and looking at Harry through his eyelashes. "I guess—I think…Your magic pushed mine up. I suppose… your method worked."

Harry cleared his throat. "Hmm… It's possible, but I have to say that this is mostly you." He worked to keep himself from rushing his sentences. Magic is a habit, hard to forget. You were just out of practice. It should come quickly, now."

Both Draco's initiative and his progress were promising, Harry thought. If anyone had told him two weeks earlier that he would be thinking such a thing, he would have laughed. Still, there was an unshakable warmth in the pit of his stomach that didn't allow itself to be ignored.

There was still something missing.

Bringing up the phobia to Draco could go very badly, and Harry had to tread carefully. He almost couldn't bear to wipe the smile from Draco's features.

Harry pushed up his glasses.

"Draco," he began, "your time here is growing short—we can schedule sessions if you'd like, of course—but I have to tell you that I'm very impressed with our progress here in the time that we've had. Still, there's something big that we haven't managed to discuss."

Draco looked down. "Right. I know."

What luck! "Can you tell me about it?"

"I actually don't remember much from the trials—not mine and especially not theirs."

Harry blinked, uncomprehending. He let Draco continue.

"My mother's sentence is shorter than my father's. I can visit them once every six months, though not both at once. The details are easy, but thinking about it… well, I draw a blank."

"Your parents." Harry realized, finally, that Draco had misinterpreted. "What do you think about them before the war?"

Draco shifted his weight. "I think they had room and a desire to protect me, but they chose to uphold radical ideas in the name of tradition. In the end, the latter outweighed any attempt at the former. And it nearly killed me."

"Do you resent them for that?"

"Yes." Draco's vehemence was palpable, hot in the air. As suddenly as it had come, the strength dissipated and he sagged in place. "But if they were free, I wouldn't be able to tell them that."

Harry managed to catch a glimpse of a younger Draco whose every pompous word was backed by his parents. From this perspective, looking back, he realized that the arrogant assertions of superiority had been overcompensation for fear of disappointing his parents.

Draco had to be honest with them, Harry knew.

"How did you feel when they were putting that pressure on you?"

Draco shrugged. "It wasn't pressure, at least not then, because I'd never known better." Harry understood and nodded. "It didn't strike me as wrong until I was asked to—"

"Kill Dumbledore." Harry remembered that Draco wasn't completely innocent. Then again, he hadn't spoken the spell, and there were details that Harry hadn't known then that changed the situation.

Draco gulped. "Yes."

"Do you feel you've failed them?"

"I have." Draco shook his head, closing his eyes. He pressed his hand to his forehead, as though thinking about it gave him a headache. Repressing emotions could have physical consequences, Harry knew, and it was obvious with Draco. He pressed his lips together tightly, then said, "I was never quite good enough. My manners weren't perfect. My Outstandings were too low. I was the only heir, but I would never be as successful as my father or as intelligent as my mother."

"In your childhood, how did you sense their approval?" Harry's line of questioning was growing more and more personal, he could tell, because Malfoy seemed to shrink back.

"My father never voiced it. He used to offer monetary reward for certain tasks. Sometimes, he used to get a look—I saw it most in the beginning, when I would survive a Cruciatus without shedding a tear. Even that stopped, eventually."

Harry let out a breath. "Would you believe that I can relate?"

Draco met his gaze, raising an eyebrow. "No."

"I lived with my aunt and uncle, since my parents were dead and the familial relation offered me some protection."

Draco nodded quickly, just a small dip of his chin.

Harry continued. "During my time in their care—if I can call it that—I was treated very poorly. Different from your upbringing, I agree, because it was very modest, but I didn't hear a word of approval in eleven years, and they lied to me about magic."

"You didn't know you were a wizard." Draco looked like he hadn't known that, repeating what Harry had said as though to convince himself.

Harry shrugged. "As I studied to become a Healer, specializing in the mind, I realized some of the effects of that treatment. I could never take compliments or adoration, even when it was justified. I was used to living in cramped spaces—do you believe that they had me in the cupboard under the stairs?" Draco's face communicated horror.

"I recently lived in a large house, actually, left to me by Sirius Black. I believe it to be your mother's ancestral home… I occupied in one room, a bathroom, and the kitchen. I was cramped, despite the space available in the rest of the house, and realized I needed to start anew to start forming new habits. In any case, I know what it means to long for approval and to feel the effects of it years later. I understand why you needed to get away."

Draco had a funny look on his face, both hands curled together in his lap, eyes locked on them. "You don't understand me, Potter. You're not like me."

Harry felt a surge of anger. "We lived different lives, yes, but you can't deny that you were affected by your childhood."

"Maybe I was, but you have no right to tell me things about myself. You're wrong."

Harry cocked his head to the side. "Still, we both found ourselves here. I'd say I have some insight."

Silence stretched on as Draco tried to recover from that, eyes downcast.

Weakly, he started, "I ran away and would have stayed away if not for my magical problems. I wasn't strong enough to stay away."

"You aren't weak." Harry took a risk, bringing himself back into the conversation. "I went back to talk to my aunt and uncle after the war—I managed to settle some things. They didn't apologize and we haven't spoken since, but I put my worrying to rest. My aunt apologized for lying to me—my mother was her sister. My cousin has a son. The boy reminds him of me, apparently, which is just my luck. I needed closure, though, and so do you."

"I'm nothing more than a child." Malfoy's voice was thick, words bitter.

"That isn't a crime, and a child needs his parents. Have you been to visit?"

"Not once. I was in France with no plans to return."

An idea, just a small seed, planted itself in Harry's mind.

"Did your parents write to you, when we were in Hogwarts?"

Something shifted subtly in Draco, relaxation, perhaps.

"No."

Harry needed to press forward.

"Would you mind if I wrote them? Perhaps you might take a trip with me?"

Wide grey eyes filled with frantic energy. "To—"

Harry shrugged. "Azkaban, at least."

Just then, there was an owl knocking at Harry's window, distracting them both. Before Harry could react to its presence, it was flying right in, squeezing through the crack that Harry had allowed for the sake of air circulation. Both Harry and Draco followed its movement, Harry with dread and Draco with confusion.

The air seemed thick, the bird moving in slow motion, eyes fixed on Harry before it dropped its package into his lap.

It was a small, unsuspecting envelope.

Harry stared at it.

The trance was broken with Draco's question. "Are you going to open it?"

With Draco's prompting, Harry noticed that it had a Healer's seal and was marked important. Safe, probably. He let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Yes, of course."

Dismay hit Harry straight in the chest when he read the letter.

"What is it?"

"Nothing important." He picked it up gingerly and threw it onto the pile of mail that he had collected on his desk.

"Potter, you're white as a sheet!" Annoyance was ringing in Draco's words, as though offended that Harry might be lying.

"Nothing."

"Harry!"

"They usually have some threats. The usual, you know."

"Threats?"

"On my life. Saviour of the World stuff. Don't worry." Harry shoved the paper into the third drawer on his desk. "It happens."

Draco muttered to himself for a moment, glowering at Harry. "I'll kill them. Fucking thankless imbeciles. You've always surrounded yourself with the worst crowd, Harry."

"Does that include you?"

"I'll leave that assessment up to you, Healer Potter."

"Fuck off."

"For all I know, they're racy letters from an excited witch. You could be lying."

"I'm not a liar, Malfoy. That's you."

"Actually, I think I've been very honest with you, thank you."

"Then you should own up to being a complete prat when we were in school. Any crowd was better than yours."

"In my crowd, we stopped blushing at the mention of sex by third year."

"I'm not blushing!"

"White to red—who would have thought that you were just as multicoloured as Weasley? I'm sure you have other talents."

"I—well… actually yes, I do."

"Always so modest. What do the threats consist of?"

The abrupt changes of topic were going to give Harry whiplash. "Er… they tell me they've been watching me—"

"Undress?" Malfoy's cheeky interjection was ignored, and even he didn't crack a smile at it.

"—and following me. Apparently, I'm going to get what I deserve, soon enough."

"Idiots. You don't deserve that shit. Do you know who's sending it? From what I saw, their penmanship is as poor as yours—that should narrow it down considerably."

"Hey!"

"Just one of my—what do you call them?—observations, Harry." His tone was sardonic, his anger powerful. For some reason, it calmed Harry. It was something he was used to.

"You're still a git, I hope you know."

"I'd like to rephrase that for you. I'm fair. If I'm honest, I'll tell you that you've helped me quite a bit. Since I'm proud, I won't thank you for it, because it's your job. Still, I do appreciate it and will return the favour, somehow."

Harry considered that. "Stop teasing me about my sex life—which you know nothing about, thank you very much—and we'll call it even."

Draco let out a laugh, which was shocking in itself. Harry froze in his place for a fraction of a second, heart squeezing painfully.

"We'll see."


	9. Fear

**XIII.**

Over the course of the sessions in their last week, Harry was hard pressed to recognize the man that stepped through the door as that long-time enemy and, more recently, patient. In two weeks—or perhaps two years—Draco had changed considerably. He was just snobby enough to be recognizable, but that was it.

"Harry," Draco nodded in greeting, settling in his seat. "Has the day finally arrived?"

"It is." Harry was quiet for a moment, just looking Draco over. "Our last session before your discharge."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "Don't call it that."

Harry shrugged. "We've come a long way."

"I can't believe it's time!"

Harry's stomach twisted. Why did Draco's eagerness to be released make him feel so empty? He shouldn't care, really. "Are you looking forward to the outside world?"

Draco looked confused for a moment, blinking. "What?" It dawned on him and his nose wrinkled. "No! I'm simply ready to see what you've been writing about me in these last three weeks."

Harry couldn't help his surprise, eyes flying open.

"That's true." He took a deep breath, gathering all of his papers in front of him although he didn't need any support. He knew Draco's case like the back of his hand. "I have some conclusions to share with you."

"Go ahead." Draco settled back in his seat, expression steely as though he expected the worst.

"Problem areas that I've identified are: family, health, and individual traumas."

Draco let out a breath.

"Luckily, we've managed to talk about family and health, and now that your sleep has been normalized, we'll slowly take you off the calming draught. I'm going to suggest you wean yourself from it over the course of a month. I'll give you the measurements necessary to do it at that rate."

Draco nodded as Harry passed him some paper. Harry squirmed as Draco looked down at the writing, Harry's best.

"I would strongly suggest that you confront your family life. Since visiting the Manor is impossible, I suggest you visit your family—even if it's in Azkaban. If you go, it should not be unaccompanied. Is there anybody—"

"Are you offering?"

"If you think my presence will help." Harry smiled.

Worry clouded Draco's features as he continued to think about it.

"What about the traumas?"

"I can tell that you deal with no small amount of anxiety." Harry alternated between casting his eyes to his papers and raising them to meet with Draco's. "That can endanger the health of your nervous system, your magical functioning, but it's not impossible to work through. You are sensitive to your surroundings—that's obvious. To balance it, we've regulated your sleep and worked to release the build-up of magic inside of you. That's physical and magical, but we have to confront it mentally and consciously. Awareness is the first step."

Harry paused for a moment.

"The biggest problem I see is fire."

Draco's face grew suddenly pale and he dug his nails into his knees. "What?" he asked, voice escaping him.

Harry cleared his throat, looking down to his notes as though it wasn't important and wishing he could stop the flashes of sympathy that threatened his calm facade.

"Fire."

"I-I don't—I don't see why…"

"We haven't covered it in our sessions, I know. I apologize for that, but I thought it secondary to the more basic things we could fix. I think you have developed a phobia. Have you heard that phrase before?"

Draco looked at him balefully. "I'm not an idiot."

"Right. Well, I would describe it as something like a boggart."

"Except there's no charm for it."

"Precisely. You have to be the one to to that. Manually, if you will, instead of by magic."

"How?"

"Recognition is a good first step, and understanding how the situation is caused. You have triggers that bring about feelings of isolation, fear, and sometimes attacks that can manifest in fits, though the experience is vastly different for different people. Other manifestations that can be noted physically include changes to heart rate, blood pressure, and sometimes physical discomfort."

Harry thought for a moment. "After reaching a conclusion regarding cause, I'd start getting comfortable by thinking about a situation that makes you… mildly frightened. Once that doesn't seem so bad, you increase the intensity a little. It won't happen overnight, but you can train your body out of your panic just as you once learned to be frightened."

Draco looked pale. "I can't do that alone."

"That's why I suggest you come in for some more sessions so that we can dedicate time to this."

"Just this? How did you even realize—fire?"

Harry smiled kindly, trying to defuse the defensiveness Draco was presenting. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, I promise. I worked it out. Something else you can do is to come up with a mantra. Repetition can really help, just like we saw when we were casting the levitation charm, remember?"

Harry listed more suggestions, pit in his stomach growing as time wore on and Draco didn't mention scheduling in any more sessions. He'd really hoped. There just hadn't been time for everything. Everything that he remembered about Draco's phobia was carefully described just in case. Harry hoped Draco would remember his instructions.

They finished their final session and sat, for a moment, in perfect silence.

"What now?" Draco asked.

Harry's heart pounded. "What do you mean?"

"When can I come back in?"

Harry shot to his feet and all but ran to retrieve his scheduling book. "Right… I work the night shift, but I can come in just before or stay after—"

"9pm, Monday?"

Harry felt intense relief. "You'll be my first patient if I just move my 9:30 appointment."

"Is that a problem?" Draco looked regretful.

"I'll tell you if it is. Don't worry, Draco. How do four sessions sound, just to begin? We can track your potion reduction, as well."

Would it be too long, too short? Harry worried at his bottom lip with his teeth, waiting.

"Fine." Success! "Thank you."

Harry just shrugged. He held out a hand to Draco, who looked at it for a full five seconds before rising and walking over to him. Their hands clasped together tightly, and then Harry felt his centre of gravity shift when Draco tugged him forward. The embrace was short but, to Harry, it was proof of something unnameable but very important.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Harry promised. "You'll be out by one."


	10. Release

**XIV.**

Harry was looking forward to Monday, though it meant that he was back to working night shifts and was not in the best of moods, sleep schedule disrupted.

"Draco."

"Harry."

They exchanged greetings stiffly, nodding before taking their respective seats. The whole scene was so formal that Harry wondered if Draco had missed him as much as Harry had missed Draco. Going back to the night shift hadn't been difficult and Hermione had picked up all of her work, but all of that made it so Harry had more time to start to doubt himself.

He should have worked harder with Draco. Sure, he had good insight into Draco's life and personal motives, but he feared that he hadn't _done_ enough to remedy the reason for Draco's admittance in the first place.

They exchanged some light formalities, Harry noticing every second that ticked away before he had to wait another week to see Draco. Hermione would have done a better job than he, Harry was sure. He hadn't done Draco justice but was determined to make his mark in the four sessions that they had left.

"How have you been feeling?"

Draco thought for a moment. "I'm well. The dosage isn't noticeably reduced in this first week, so that's been all right."

"Have you tried thinking about some situations involving fire, as I suggested?"

Draco shook his head. "I didn't dare. I've had to adjust to my flat and it wasn't worth the stress after such a good few weeks."

"Hmm…" Harry said. "Perhaps we could start with something small. Can you imagine fire doing good?"

Draco cleared his throat, leaning back into the chair. His arms rested to his side and his legs were spread just slightly. Harry thought it was the most relaxed he had ever looked, which was definitely a good sign.

Then, Draco's eyes caught Harry's and any wayward thoughts were dispelled. The gravity of Draco's gaze stilled Harry's insides.

"Fire destroys, Harry," Draco said in a hushed tone. "Fire cleanses by ripping everything away."

Harry nodded. "But the first humans on this earth might have frozen—to death, I can safely guess—without fire to warm them."

Draco raised an eyebrow. He looked skeptical.

"Are you even qualified for this?" he asked.

Harry sighed.

As the sessions tended to go by faster than Harry thought possible, it seemed absurd that weeks were quite so long, everlasting and mind-numbing. For the first time in Harry's life, Mondays couldn't come fast enough. Harry distracted himself by planning what they were going to do, needing to do a good job with Draco. It was a matter of pride.

"Do you trust me?" he asked at their next session.

"Hm." A pause. "Why?"

"Today, we're going on something of a trip."

Draco looked unhappy with that suggestion.

"We've a meeting in Azkaban," Harry said, pushing back his chair and standing. "I'll apparate us. My wand has clearance."

The protests rose immediately. "I don't need to—"

Harry gave him a look. "It is my professional opinion that you need to go. I didn't warn you, though I've been planning this, because we need your reaction to be sincere and unique—this is one chance we have at confronting your family issues."

"I don't have _family issues_."

Harry ignored him. "I need your honest reaction, not for this meeting to be one of millions of situations constructed in your head."

"You're an idiot."

"An idiot who has helped you so far, isn't that right?"

"Don't gloat."

"Don't pout."

"You're insufferable. You know I don't have to be here."

"But you keep coming." The lighthearted taunting came naturally from Harry, though he had to admit that his childhood had given him ample practice. "And today, we're going to Azkaban. It's scheduled and cleared."

"Don't you have another patient after me? The 9:30?"

Harry was calm, though he allowed a small smirk to play at his lips. "What did I just say about clear schedules? I've freed mine for this outing. Granted, it is later than usual visiting hours in Azkaban, but—"

"But they wouldn't say no to their Saviour."

"Only you do that, these days." For a moment, Draco's eyes gleamed with triumph, as though he'd won. Sarcasm thick, Harry said, "That's why you're special to me. Think of tonight as my little treat."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Do you realize that you're not offering me anything that I'm not paying for?"

Harry let out a disappointed sound, casting his gaze to the floor. His fingertips tingled as though with magic or anger. It was neither, but he was almost breathless. Malfoy was so stubborn.

"Maybe it was a mistake. Perhaps you're not quite ready for what I had in mind. I did think this was a little ambitious." Harry tried to sound disappointed—hurt, even.

"Oh, fuck you, Potter," Malfoy snarled, eyes dark. "I know what you're doing." Another second went past. "Fuck!"

In a split second, Draco lunged for Harry's wand, still on the table. Harry didn't have time to react before he felt waves of power hit him, followed by the tight squeeze of Malfoy's hand around his forearm, and then they disappeared with a light _pop_.

It was Harry's turn to swear when they finally landed. He barely caught his breath before he started disentangling his limbs from Malfoy's.

Draco was pale.

"You could've splinched us!" Harry exclaimed after giving Draco a worried once-over. "That was stupid."

"I could say the same about your entire existence." The prim tone was in direct contrast to his indecorous position, sprawled out as he was.

He was like a child who'd lost an argument and wasn't taking it well. For some reason, the association tugged at some part of Harry, almost causing him to smile.

Harry started, unwilling to accept that he'd almost just found something about Draco Malfoy endearing.

"Get up!" Harry said sharply, and Draco took his sweet time stretching and turning and brushing and arranging before finally standing beside Harry.

At least they were in the right place. The room was a deceptive, light pink, soft and tiled and closed around them.

Harry pulled his robes around him to block out the chill. The apparition point was of a welcoming colour, but it _was_ located in a prison, after all. Harry was familiar with the location but he noticed that Draco was looking around curiously.

"Is this Azkaban? It looks—decent." Harry noted some finality in Draco's tone, as though he wished that would be the end of their visit. Unfortunately for him, that was not the case.

"This is the apparition room. If we leave through that door—" Harry pointed, "we'll reach the security checkpoint. They'll take us to a visitation room, afterwards. We're here to see your father."

Draco swore under his breath, but Harry fancied that, in that moment, he caught a glimpse of a younger Malfoy. Draco's posture changed just slightly. He straightened up fully, back straight, and smoothed his robes out. The crease between his eyebrows stayed, however, and Harry wondered if it would go away if he swiped it away with his thumb.

Or if he slapped Malfoy.

That would probably work better and be less horrific for him to think about.

They went through security agonizingly slowly, despite Harry's status, though it all seemed to be too fast for Draco. His eyes darted around at every sound, as though Lucius Malfoy might turn a corner and find them before they were ready.

Harry's plan was to let Draco talk, to listen, and to watch the interactions through the glass. He hadn't expected Draco to clutch the material of his robes as they faced the entrance to the small room. The heat that Draco's hand passed onto his wrist through the fabric wiped all of Harry's thoughts from his mind.

The door opened mechanically, without a sound, and Harry was the one who pulled Draco forward. Once he was in motion, Draco seemed to know how to continue, how to paste a polite smile to his face and how to extend an arm in greeting to his father, who was seated in a small white chair in the centre of the room.

"Father," Draco said, voice so fragile that it seemed to waver in the air.

"Draco." There was disapproval in his tone such that Harry could pick up on it. By the way Draco's eyes narrowed, he noticed it as well.

"Harry Potter." There was something else. Something desperate and grating. Harry wanted to slam Malfoy's—the elder's—face into the floor.

"Good evening," Harry forced. "I'm here officially to oversee the proceedings."

He'd made up the story in his mind. He would tell Lucius Malfoy that he was an Auror, or imply that, and it would give Draco the room to share or withhold information about his mental state. He would also give himself the authority to end the meeting if it went poorly.

Draco looked like he'd been struck as he took the chair opposite his father. Harry stood, though he caught the look on Draco's face when he made to turn away. He stayed at Draco's side.

"How long has it been, Draco?" Malfoy asked, eyes searching his son's face. To Draco's credit, he didn't crack under the pressure—he froze, instead.

"Two years."

"Ah." Malfoy leaned back. "Have you visited your mother?"

"No."

"Hm." Malfoy's eyes moved to Harry, looking through him with such a piercing stare that Harry felt momentarily naked. "Have you been to the Manor?"

"No. It isn't allowed."

"Two years. Have you married?"

Draco looked embarrassed, if the way he was avoiding eye contact meant anything. Harry was intrigued and then shocked when Draco's words came out huffier than usual. "No. It isn't a priority."

"I thought not." Lucius was going to get punched right in the jaw if he continued making jabs at Draco. Harry would see to it. Malfoy had no clue what his son was going through just being in his father's presence. He couldn't value it. Harry knew.

"How's Azkaban?"

There was vague disapproval in the silence that followed the question, broken by a dignified cough from Malfoy. "Much improved." He looked at Harry. "Is there anything I can do about the food?"

Harry shook his head. "I am not in charge of anything here, Malfoy."

"Pity." Harry wished he could do what he was imagining. He wished he could tear the superiority from Lucius Malfoy's being. He wished he could show Malfoy just how deplorable his actions had been and continued to be. He wished he could make Malfoy regret it.

"I've been in France," Draco offered. Harry thought he could see through the flat tone to the hope Draco was clinging to. It was like a child showing an adult his first painting, expecting accolades and being heartbroken by the indifference with which he was met.

"Avoiding your affairs here, I see. Hm. Draco?" A pause. "A Slytherin doesn't run from his problems."

Draco's cheeks grew mottled, his eyes gleamed in the harsh light. Harry's chest started to hurt. It was hard for him to watch a patient get so discouraged. It wasn't supposed to go this way.

"I must ask, if you both refuse to come forth with it. What have you come to offer me?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. The nerve! "Nothing. I'm here to watch, not actively participate in the conversation."

It was neutral. Or was it? Harry was just trying not to fly forward and shake Lucius until one word—at least one—came out and did some good.

Lucius looked disappointed for a fraction of a second, then looked back to Draco. "Very well. I know exactly what it is, then. I told your mother that you'd spend all the money if left to your own devices. This couldn't have been helped. How much do you need?"

Harry found it very interesting that Malfoy thought that of his son.

Interesting in a _I'm interested in how many times I could hex him before he apologized_ sort of way. His attention was, then, caught by the undignified and unexpected snort that Draco gave.

"I haven't spent all the money, Father." A shiver ran down Harry's spine as Draco stood. He started to pace, just a few steps one way before turning back. Harry hadn't ever seen him like this.

"I haven't even spent a tenth! Merlin." Draco's lip curled, so reminiscent of his sneers of old but somehow so different when they were directed not at Harry but at Lucius Malfoy. Harry's heart beat faster, in time with the bursts of energy that Malfoy was sending out.

A calm suddenly overtook the room. Like frost collecting the air, the very essence of the room seemed to come to a stop.

"I came here to ask you something—I'm trying over. Once, we were at the top—galas, dinners, guests, recognition. I miss it, too. But even if I can't get there by myself, I'll make decisions that will not put innocents in danger!" His voice rose, filling the room.

Lucius looked at him, cold.

"I just need to know, Father, if you ever—just once—looked back at the last twenty years of your life and thought, ' _That was a bad idea.'"_

"Your anger causes you to reveal too much, Draco."

Harry thought that was unfair, could see the way it riled Draco up further. But Malfoy couldn't know that Draco was weaning himself from calming draught, that his son had been forced into a hospital for there weeks after a breakdown, nor the extent of the impact he'd had on Draco.

Lucius leaned forward in his seat and Harry noticed, for the first time, the magical bonds that held his feet to the legs of the chair and the way his wrists couldn't separate more than half a metre.

He still looked like he thought he was in control, which Harry found maddening.

"I did what was right," he said, his tone like glass where Draco's had been red-hot lava. "I carried on with tradition."

"Why was that more important than Mother? Than me? Than the lives we built?"

"The life _I_ built." Lucius looked disappointed, peering over his nose at Draco. "It was more important because we are here thanks to our predecessors, and the legacy of 15 generations of Malfoys will not die because my _child_ is unhappy with my decisions."

"Unhappy?" Draco's voice cracked on the word. Harry could feel the anger, now, radiating from Draco. "I wasn't unhappy. I was nearly killed. I was tortured. I was forced to _kill_."

"You survived. You didn't cast that final spell."

Draco closed his eyes. When he reopened them, they were alive with emotion. Harry would have been ecstatic—should have been, really, at the problems they were exploring—but he was too preoccupied with the bullshit that Lucius Malfoy was spouting at his son.

Luckily, Draco said something before Harry could.

"I didn't survive." He gulped. "You killed a child—an innocent. You were the one responsible for teaching me how to survive, but you did exactly the opposite."

"I had to survive, myself!"

Draco spat at his father's feet. Harry froze in his place.

"You're disgusting. I looked up to you, once, Father. I thought you were the most powerful wizard in existence. You protected me. But it was all a fantasy. You never gave me a second thought. I was your heir and I would survive because of the family name, but I had to do it all alone."

"I—"

Draco didn't let his father speak. "You can't always think about yourself!"

Harry was struck with the difference between the sleeping Draco he'd seen all those days ago—coddled by the soft ignorance that sleep provides—and the rage he was seeing. There was a sharp tugging sensation in the pit of his stomach, a dull ache that captured his heart in its creeping takeover. He wanted to protect Draco, though nothing about the blond was showing that he was being negatively affected. In fact, he had a vigour to his usually pale face that told Harry that good things were happening.

"Who am I meant to think of? Harry Potter, the one that put me in here?"

"Again. You're in here again. That pattern would tell an idiot, a child, that there is something wrong with you."

Lucius sputtered. "You're insolent, just like you were as a child! You have no business being here."

"I came to see my father. I see now that my efforts were in vain. If you can't recognize that I've changed, Father, then I must tell you that you haven't. You're as clueless as ever."

"I should have put you in Durmstrang, because you seem to have forgotten all your lessons on discipline and respect."

"Oh, because being in Hogwarts and under your scrutiny gave me the chance to feel free? Father, I would have welcomed any way to get away from you. Don't you see?"

"See what?"

"I hate you. I have only bad memories of my childhood home. If that wasn't enough, the things you forced me to do in my own _school_. Though I hadn't the strength to kill Dumbledore, I could have killed you."

A sneer twisted Lucius' face so that half of it fell into the shade of its own shadow, his chin dipping lower. His wide, crazed eyes dropped their attention to the floor.

"I have more pressing things to do than exchange such empty sentiments with you, Draco. We both know you were never powerful enough to kill me."

Harry felt the air crackle with power, grow thick with the energy of a spell that wasn't exactly hot but burned nonetheless. Lucius, suddenly, was flying backward. His chair hit the floor with a clatter, and Harry had time to shout for Draco.

"Control!"

The air was liquid around them—alive, even. It twisted and churned.

With a heave, everything stopped. The door stopped rattling on its hinges, the one-way glass that Harry knew was there stopped vibrating. Lucius, hanging onto an invisible force, clawing with his hands as his face grew steadily redder. His legs, still connected to the chair, were ineffective and weighed down.

For a moment, choking sounds and the scraping of the chair against the cold floor were the only occupants of the room. Draco, Lucius, and Harry seemed disconnected completely.

The sound of skin falling to the ground came.

Harry's throat went dry as his eyes met the pile on the floor. His heart stopped. A lightning bolt of panic shot through him.

"Draco!"

He knelt down to press to fingers to Draco's temple, running a quick diagnostic that told him Draco was—unconscious, but thankfully alive.

He hadn't seen a spell, and Lucius was supposed to be subject to the damping spells on the island, but for a split second, he'd thought that perhaps—

Shock. A hand encircling his ankle, tugging. Harry couldn't react before Lucius Malfoy was kneeling half-beside him, half-on top of him. His forearms pressed Harry's chest to the floor, one knee pressing at his stomach.

"Harry Potter," whispered Malfoy, breath stale and moist against Harry's cheek. "My son doesn't deserve your attention or your time. You could get me out. I could help you rise to the top. I could give you anything you wanted."

Harry's stomach turned.

He let his head relax against the floor, though he wanted desperately to fight.

In one swift motion, Harry contracted his abdominal muscles, using the momentum to slam his head forward and into Malfoy's. Pain throbbed through him, though adrenaline caused him to overlook even the blurriness and the coppery taste of blood.

He twisted sharply, throwing Malfoy off balance. He had both arms free, then, and he was free.

Lucius Malfoy looked up at him from the ground, kneeling. His lips twitched.

"Potter, I always knew you had potential. Even the Dark Lord was wrong, but I was not. The world could be yours."

Harry pulled out his wand without another word. His emotions were blinding him, or perhaps those were tears—his head really hurt. He was out of breath, his throughs were scattered. It was cold, he thought. He was shaking. Something was shaking.

The world disappeared when he blinked, and then he couldn't open his eyes. He yearned for the taste of justice. Lucius Malfoy deserved no mercy.

He dropped the wand.

It didn't matter. Everything he was thinking suddenly burst forth in a surge of magical power. He'd never been able to do something so complex—wandlessly and wordlessly, at that.

Lucius Malfoy was bound, silenced, moved to the other end of the visitation room, stupefied, and leg-locked for good measure. Harry only realized it after the fact, when his heart stopped beating so frantically and when he remembered Draco on the ground.

His eyes fell on empty space, and Harry _exploded_.

The door flew open, Harry's magic causing it. The glass to his right let out a whine, a precursor to the symphony of tinkling that came after. When each little sliver hit the ground, the noise level grew.

White noise in Harry's head made it all the harder to realize he was being spoken to.

"There's no need to be dramatic."

Harry whirled around. Draco. _Thank fuck_.

"Are you all right?"

Draco's lips pursed and he gave Harry a funny look. "I'm not the one that just broke Confinement Glass."

Harry didn't answer.

"I'm sorry. My father isn't usually like that. He usually lets his guests drink a little before he starts in on the negotiating."

Harry didn't smile.

"You could've been hurt," he told Draco. "What happened?"

"You told me not to hurt him."

"Draco, you collapsed! You shut down completely."

"You did the opposite, I see." Harry followed Draco's line of sight to the bound Lucius, who looked murderous—but then, when didn't he?

"I was protecting you."

"Thanks, Potter."

Harry didn't know how to respond. "We should go."

"What, have we finally found a situation that Harry Potter could get in trouble for?"

"Sod off." Harry's mind raced as he recalled the events of the previous few minutes. It would probably be best to leave quickly. He'd speak to Shacklebolt soon enough. "I'm serious."

Draco didn't say another word, and they quickly left the visitation room and continued down the corridor. Harry, extremely nervous, could only manage a nod at the guards, thanking whatever deity had allowed him and Draco to get by without supervision from a guard.

Sometimes, he decided, his authority came in handy.

Not often enough.

They apparated, this time by Harry's wand _and_ magic, both still shaken from the experience with Lucius.

"Where are we?" Draco asked, yanking his hand away from Harry's grip subtly. Harry noticed the effort and noted its ineffectiveness. He maintained his grip, taking hints form the way Draco stopped protesting soon after. "This isn't the hospital."

"We're going to have a drink," Harry said.

And, in that moment, it made sense. It occurred to him that Draco might need someone with whom to spend time. He probably got rather lonely.

It certainly didn't have to do with the fierce need to overlook Draco so that he wouldn't get himself into any more trouble. It certainly wasn't because the thought of parting ways for another long week was making him want to hex somebody.

It was simply late, they'd just been in a stressful situation, and Harry had free time.

"A drink?"

"That's what I said, Malfoy. Keep up."

"A drink. With you?"

Harry extended an arm. "The best company you could have asked for. After you."

The general noise of _Lucky Felix_ , magical pub, spilled onto the street, wrapping around them and pulling them in. Draco didn't even protest, keeping his thin lips still. The beat pulsed through them upon their first steps over the threshold of the establishment, closing around their hearts and forcing them into motion.

"What is this place?" Draco's voice soared over the din. Harry's ears were fine-tuned to listen to his rich voice.

"Heaven," Harry returned, smiling back easily. He only had good memories of the small club.

They were obstructed by a rather large crowd, thick and moving as one. Harry's chest filled with the scent, known to him simply because of Dean and Seamus' exploration more than a year earlier, when Ginny had really rekindled things with Dean, when Harry had relaxed a little—when he'd first noticed himself noticing another man.

They weren't stopped, weren't noticed, and the dim lighting made it so that Draco's hand was wrapped in Harry's cloak, keeping him close. They emerged on the other side of the mass and Harry only nodded at the man blocking the door to the quiet lounge area.

His eyes widened slightly before he stepped aside, gaze lingering first on Harry's forehead and then on his choice of company—Draco Malfoy, probably a recognizable figure to some.

Before he knew it, they were seated in a small booth, the music a hazy memory that they could feel vibrating through the floor.

"I thought we could try something different," Harry said. To be truthful, he wasn't sure why this place had occurred to him. Surely it didn't make sense, not after Azkaban.

Somehow, in spite of Draco sitting across from him, giving him funny looks, Harry felt some of the stress from before melt away, the movement around them aiding him to relax. Malfoy looked, if possible, more worried than before. He didn't look calm, eyes darting around. He'd removed his outer cloak and had placed it beside him.

"Draco, are you all right?"

The gaze locked on him. Something tugged at Harry's heart. There was panic to be found in Draco's eyes, a nervous energy to the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Everything else fell away. If someone had asked, Harry wouldn't have been able to tell them his own name.

"I…" Draco looked frustrated, at that moment, eyes narrowing and scrutinizing Harry, who realized that he didn't have any good explanations. On second thought, it was probably completely inappropriate that he was at Lucky Felix with a patient—oh Merlin, Draco was his patient. Hermione would have a heart attack. She'd probably make him fill out some forms.

But she didn't know—Harry shook the thought from his mind. It wasn't even like they were on a _date_ , perish the thought. It was Harry's treatment for Draco. For some reason that Harry couldn't remember anymore.

He was drawn back to reality. Draco was waving his arm in front of Harry's face.

"Hello?" The incredulous tone was more familiar to Harry. "Is that walnut you call a brain finished rattling around in there?"

Harry bristled. "Yours is a peanut." Despite his anger, it seemed his mouth did not know how to spout anything intelligent.

"Would you men like some nuts?"

They both swivelled to see the man who had approached their table. Harry knew there was food that could be ordered and a great deal of alcohol, but the server's presence irked him.

"Drinks?. Wait, you're—" The server began, but Harry cut him off.

"Harry Potter, yes. No, I simply must insist on paying." He fixed the man with a stern glare, inwardly pleased when he scurried, frightened at least for the moment.

"What's the problem?" Harry exclaimed after a moment of silence.

Draco considered his words for a second, tilting his head to the left. "I'm confused."

"About what?"

Grey met green for a second. Harry felt something twist inside of him. Draco looked away.

"I don't understand what you're gaining here."

Harry didn't understand. Then again, it was Draco, so that was pretty much a given. "I thought this would be a good break after what we did tonight."

"Don't you have work?" Draco spoke with a thoughtful tone to his words.

"I took the first few hours off," Harry lied. He'd taken the night off, agreeing to work some other hours to make up for it. "We're flexible, especially now that Hermione's back. We haven't as many patients as we sometimes have."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

Exasperation flickered across Draco's face. "Why did you take off time from work?"

"For you."

" _Yes_ ," Draco said, "but _why?"_

"So that you can get better faster."

"I'm not paying you."

Harry rolled his eyes. "It isn't about money."

"That's what I don't understand. Why are you doing it?"

"I want to help you." That wasn't the full truth, but Harry didn't understand the truth enough to even want to share something so complex. "I didn't think—"

"Do you ever?"

" _I didn't think_ this through. Alcohol probably isn't professional of me, but it seemed right."

"Right."

"Right."

The awkward lull in their conversation was mitigated by the server's return. Draco asked for two fingers of Dragon's Breath, brought to him in a cloudy glass that he inspected rather critically before taking a small sip and nodding minutely.

Harry decidedly _didn't_ order firewhiskey.

"You look much better than I feel after what just happened." Harry said.

"I'm feeling better in general," was Draco's simple reply.

Harry's lips twisted into a little smirk. "I actually think it's the change in robes. Those heavy ones rather washed you out."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Did I ask for your opinion on my fashion choices? You don't see me telling you your hair is a bird's nest."

Harry shook his head. "I suppose not." He inhaled deeply. "A toast, then? To feeling better."

"And to selective criticism. I'll drink to that."

Draco's glass clinked lightly against Harry's, the light tinkling just audible over the other noises of the crowded room. The lights, dim even in the lounge, cast a yellowish hue over everything in the room.

Draco's harsh features seemed softened, somehow.

The transformation probably happened somewhere after the fourth round. They kept talking, somehow leaning forwards towards one another as time ticked away. Harry's vision started getting shaky around the edges at some point, though the server learned to keep the alcohol flowing.

Some part of Harry wondered at how intelligent it was to be continuing, but Draco was smiling and staring at him in a way that made him feel like his job had been very—no, _exceptionally_ —well done. It was success that pushed him forwards.

It had nothing to do with the way Draco's hand was resting on his at the centre of the table, a warm pressure that Harry couldn't stop thinking about but had to avoid staring at it or Draco might notice he'd noticed and move his hand and then he'd definitely be able to tell that Harry was far too interested for it to be justifiable or normal and that would just ruin everything and Harry thought he'd ruined too many things in his life not to bask in this little victory and Hermione was definitely going to kill him.

"Excuse me," someone said. Harry turned to the right, his eyes closing and then very slowly opening again.

He felt sluggish, as though he was falling.

He squinted, glasses on the table for some reason.

"Yes? I'm Harry Potter."

"I need to test you two. We have reason to believe there are two underage wizards here. Just the standard spell, please."

The impatience in his tone made Harry scowl, but he spoke the spell, emitting a puff of green smoke.

"Thank you. And you?" The man turned to Draco, who was staring at the wand he'd taken from his pocket and now held in his hand. He didn't look very sure of himself. "Sir? This is simple protocol."

A sick feeling rose in Harry, and not just from the drink. Draco's genuine nervousness shook him, at least slightly, from his self-induced haziness.

Draco whispered the spell.

Nothing happened.

"Sir!" The man said, sounding gleeful. "You know what that means. The magic doesn't li—"

"Shut up!" Draco snapped, shouting the words the second time. The sudden smoke made Harry and the man cough, and when it finally cleared, the man looked exceedingly disappointed.

"Perhaps," he said, nose wrinkled, "it's time for you two to go home."

"We don't live together!" The man was already gone.

"He's right!" Draco was just as far gone as he was, shaking a fist.

Harry was aware that he couldn't function as he normally did, the lack of control just disconcerting enough that he was reminded of it whenever he did anything. Still, he couldn't stop the way he swayed in spot some time later, standing finally with Draco looking just as exhausted and deliciously drunk.

"This was nice, Po-otter," Draco said, yawning as they dropped far too many galleons on the table and started to walk back to the door that led to the crowd. "Mr. Healer Potter the Saviour."

Harry snorted.

The music was deafening, the crowd thicker than ever. Harry could hardly balance, let alone manoeuvre around all the bodies, so he let Draco drag him until the cool night air enveloped them and cloaked them in the privacy of darkness.

"Malfoy?" Harry whispered, very careful not to disrupt the peace of the night with loud words.

"What is it?"

"I think I'm a little bit drunk," Harry confided.

"All right, Potter."

"No, it's true!"

"That's why you're leaning on me," Draco said, lips too close to Harry's and body so warm beside him. The sun's heat was gone, but it was to be replaced by Draco, it seemed. He was fiery.

"'M not leaning."

"Well you're not standing straight."

"'s 'cause I'm gay." Harry said, loose tongued and distracted by a small gust of wind. His mind hurt with the pressure of focusing on what he was saying.

"Really?" Why did Malfoy sound so sober?

Harry shook his head, but it didn't help anything. "Mh-mm."

"That makes sense."

Harry turned on him. "What makes sense?" Wait, had he just—he'd never told anybody… _Draco Malfoy?_ His head hurt.

"Everything with Weasle—er, Ginny."

"You keep your nose in your own business," Harry said, rather ineffectively veering off to the left so that he almost collided with a wall. "It wasn't her fault that I didn't like her."

"That's fair," Malfoy said.

"Don't laugh at me!" Harry's indignation was out of place and too loud. Harry could hardly tell.

"I'm not laughing, Potter."

"Good."

Draco chuckled.

"I have to go," Harry said quickly, trying to be subtle that he didn't want to talk about it any longer. His brain was going to melt and bleed from his ears if he didn't get to sleep soon. It also had something to do with the fact that he couldn't properly remember what was so bad about telling Draco he was gay.

"Can you apparate?" Draco asked. Harry thought it was rather cruel that he was pretending to care.

"Can you?"

"Yes, but I usually don't when I'm this—"

Harry lurched forward, grabbing Draco by the shoulder with one hand. Before the sentence was even finished, he was already disappearing with a pop, interrupting Draco. Harry didn't think twice about Draco that night, falling directly onto his sofa and falling asleep on his front with nausea tightening in his stomach.


	11. Betrayal

**XV.**

An ungodly droning filled the still air around Harry's head, forcing him into consciousness with a loud groan that echoed through him. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. Disgusting. He did not remember anything, at first, and wondered why he'd been woken up at all.

Then he heard it. The sound of at least four different owls pecking at the glass of his window.

He squinted, then realized he didn't need to. Harry reached up to his face, and very carefully noted that he'd slept with his glasses on.

It came back to him in flashes.

Azkaban.

Could it have been real?

Lucky Felix.

Harry groaned, slamming his face into the cushion and feeling the pulsing hangover like a living creature inside of his mind, clawing as though to escape.

Had he called off all of his work responsibilities? He didn't remember. What had he told Draco? Why had he had so much to drink?

 _And why were the owls still there?_

Harry wanted to throw something at the window, frighten the creatures away for just a minute. He needed to get his bearings, but he knew that excess movement would probably result in great discomfort and the pecking was starting to physically pain him.

Very gingerly, Harry pulled the covers off of himself—where had they come from , anyway?—and slowly inched his way towards the edge of the couch. He was amazed at the distance, the torturous distance he had to cross before he reached the floor. His legs slowly reached towards the floor, his toes curling at the cold surface.

He looked out the window again. It was hardly morning. It was stormy, clouds dark, and he wanted to go back to sleep.

Harry hadn't saved the wizarding world by whining, so he gritted his teeth and stood, trying to deal with the rush he heard in his ears without toppling over, and made it to the window with no further incident.

Five owls. Merlin.

Ginny's, Hermione's, one holding a letter with a Prophet seal, and two unknown birds.

Harry shivered. It was simply too early to be faced with everything. He hadn't even had a chance to drink any hangover potion. Did he even have any?

A deep breath through his nose later, Harry had opened the window and stepped aside for the owls to enter. He could have left them outside, he realized in retrospect, when they all took his spot on the bed, lined up and staring at him with their beady eyes. Then again, they probably would have annoyed him and aggravated his headache until he'd relented, so he'd really just accelerated the arrival of the inevitable.

"What do you want?"

They did not answer. Harry had a moment of embarrassment, but then remembered that they were owls and that he was allowed to be in a mood. He had no idea what the letters would bring. How long had he slept? Was it even the same year?

He didn't recall ever feeling quite so groggy after a night out. He usually held his liquor rather well, at least better than Ron did.

Hermione's owl regarded him shrewdly, as though it had heard the thought.

He extended one hand to the owl, which hopped, took flight, dropped the letter, and circled around the room again to land on its spot.

It wanted a reply. Good grief.

 _Harry, is what the papers say true? Respond immediately—I want to help you. I have various resources that could help us retaliate, which I think is best if you know who did it._

 _Why didn't you tell us? We would have given you all our love and support. This must be hard for you. I'm so sorry._

 _Please answer,_

 _Hermione_

 _Harry, I can't believe you did it. After all this time, I'm so proud that you wanted to come out with it this way. At least you won't be hiding. I always thought you would feel so much better once more people knew, and I'm so happy for you._

 _Dean said he always knew and that you'll all have to go for drinks to celebrate._

 _What's all this about Draco Malfoy?_

 _Love, Ginny_

 _HONOURED HARRY POTTER,_

 _THE PROPHET WOULD BE HONOURED TO BE THE FIRST TO HEAR YOUR REACTION TO THESE STORIES, RECEIVED FROM AN ANONYMOUS SOURCE. THE WIZARDING WORLD WOULD LOVE TO HEAR YOUR SIDE OF THE STORY. IS IT TRUE? WHAT WAS DUMBLEDORE'S ROLE IN YOUR HOMOSEXUALITY? WHY HAVE YOU BEEN SPOTTED WITH CHILDHOOD ENEMY, DRACO MALFOY? ANY INFORMATION IS GOLD TO YOUR ADORING PUBLIC. PLEASE CONTACT US FOR AN EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW._

 _from,_

 _Leo Duce and Evind Skeeter_

 _Editors of the Daily Prophet_

 _55 Diagon Alley, London, UK_

 _Company number: 69334444_

 _Potter,_

 _It wasn't me. Please see me later. I just read the paper._

 _D_

 _We cannot control your movements but associating with a former Death Eater who has fallen so far has forced our hand. We just read the paper and await your reaction._

 _We will not hesitate to put more pressure on you, Potter. We do not appreciate being ignored. We will find you and control you, and then you will get what you deserve._

 _The public will turn on you. You have nowhere to go that we won't know about. Good luck, little mouse._

 _The cats come prowling._

 _The Occluded_

Harry shook from fear and from shock. His headache was all but forgotten, but the panic that coursed through him was just as debilitating. He'd confided in Malfoy. Despite Draco's letter, Harry found himself deep in suspicion. Was he part of the group that wished him harm? They sounded similar, perhaps. Harry didn't want to think about it.

Harry didn't need the paper to know what the story was about, but how bad could it have been? Only Draco knew, but perhaps they'd been seen…? Confusion refused to relinquish its hold on Harry.

No wonder Hermione had tried to save him.

There was a hole, it seemed, in the pit of his stomach, which seemed to be burning and stretching. Harry couldn't breathe.

In the middle of his mental breakdown, someone knocked on the door. Harry didn't think he could stand to have stress cause him to pop something in his head, so he cast some charms that would tell him the identity of the person there. He immediately felt adrenaline rush through him, knew his escape routes in case it was someone dangerous who he didn't recognize.

The descriptors flashed in the air before him. Blonde. Height and weight appeared without him paying attention, because his heart had jumped into his throat.

Just then, Draco's owl let out a hoot.

The knocking came again, this time a little more quickly and loudly.

"Harry?"

"How do you know where I live?" Harry shouted, the silence following it squeezing his throat so that he could hardly swallow. Harry felt the world swim around him. He'd never experienced anything so nerve-wracking.

"You side-alonged me yesterday. Can I please come in?"

There was something straining in Draco's voice, something that made Harry feel like everything was falling apart.

What had he done? He had been holding onto Draco. When had Draco left? What had he seen? What had Harry said? What had Draco told the paper? Why?

Had it been Draco who had covered Harry with a blanket?

Harry sat down hard.

"I'm not home," he said weakly, but of course Draco didn't hear him. The whole world knew. He would have to avoid everybody for some time, until it quieted down. His life was a jumble.

"Let me in!"

Harry almost relented, hearing the note of desperation, but then he remembered the reason for all of the panic that morning. He forced himself to stay seated.

Hermione, his _friend_ , had known what was best for him. She'd warned him. Why did that implicit _I told you so_ hurt less than it did to know that Draco had betrayed him?

What if Draco was part of the group that wished him harm?

The thought repeated itself inside Harry's mind. There were so many possibilities that Harry wanted to dissolve into the silence that had fallen over him.

Silence? The knocking had stopped.

Harry cast the identification spell again, his heart twisting painfully when it came back _empty_.

Feeling sick to his stomach, Harry approached the door quietly, trying not to cause any noise. If Draco was waiting out there—though Harry wasn't sure he wanted Draco to wait for him—then he couldn't let his approach be heard.

He looked through the identification hole. No one. But perhaps he hadn't seen properly.

Thinking for a moment, Harry tried to fit his theory in with the Draco he'd analyzed for more than a month. Could he have been lying the whole time? He'd had many an opportunity to hurt Harry. What had changed?

Every one of Harry's effort felt like it had been betrayed. He had to open the door.

Hands shaking for some unidentifiable reason, Harry twisted the lock, heard the _clunk_ of the lock, and then pulled the door towards him. He poked his head outside, turning it side to side, holding his wand at his side, waiting. It occurred to him that he was waiting for something, but though anything he imagined was horrific, nothing prepared him for the realization that Draco had really and truly left.

As he made to close the door again, mind deathly silent and heart still pounding, Harry's gaze landed on a mug of tea on the mat that sat in front of his flat. _You're welcome,_ it read. Harry knelt to grab the mug and the note that was scribbled on some parchment that had been tucked underneath.

He slammed the door behind him, heart racing.

 _Harry_ , the note began, _you have to trust that it wasn't me. The tea is to help you recover if your hangover is quite as potent as mine was this morning. I've mixed in some hangover potion. The right measure, estimating your height and weight and everything. Please accept it._

 _I was out of sorts for an hour. And then I saw the paper._

 _I suppose this is also for that time I left your office without taking your offered tea. It's also for leaving your flat last night. It's… as close to an apology as you're getting._

 _It wasn't me. I wouldn't. Believe me, please, though I would understand if you didn't._

 _Draco_

The words were even, neat, but the signature was shaky.

Harry wished he could go back to sleep but there was too much to think about.

He sat at the table in his kitchen and lifted the mug to his lips. Tea, black, just as he took it—or perhaps Draco had done that to allow him to add cream or sugar to his taste… it was bitter, more than usual, on his tongue, but his headache did fade noticeably.

Harry sipped it slowly, trying to unravel everything that had happened. His emotions ran wild inside of him, though Harry tried to use every shred of professional judgement to organize himself.


	12. Consultations

**XVI.**

It had all been a mistake was the conclusion he finally reached. A big, fat, glaring mistake. He wrote back to everybody but Draco and the Prophet but did not go to work.

When he finally decided it was time to stop wallowing in shock, Hermione was the one he needed to see first. She'd been right, after all.

Her wards let him into her office without a key.

She looked at him in surprise, hands freezing in place over her paperwork. Her hair was collected rather loosely, piled on top of her head. They both stood, staring at each other, and Harry saw something collapse.

"Harry, what's happened?" Her voice was tinged with panic and he saw her worry in the careful way she dropped her quill to the table. "The letters—?"

Harry shook his head, finding it suddenly hard to swallow. He felt as though the letter in his pocket, Draco's, was burning red-hot and awaiting final judgement against his thigh. He took the seat across from Hermione, feeling rather small.

"It's Malfoy."

Annoyance flickered over her face, and even as she opened her mouth to say something, words spilled from Harry's mouth, more powerful than he'd expected.

"You were right." Harry leaned forward. "I'm obsessed. I'm sorry. I feel like I should always be with him—not because he's doing anything suspicious, but because I worry that… I'll fail him if I don't. I don't know, Hermione. We don't have many more sessions together, but I lose my train of thought with him. What if something goes wrong? I'll never know but it will have been my fault."

"Hm…" she said noncommittally. Harry could have sworn that her fingers twitched towards her quill, as though to write.

Harry shook his head. "I can't stop thinking about him. He had a rough life. Did you know we went for drinks? Merlin, my heart rate picks up around him and it's as though my brain stops existing—I'm left with… anger, I think? Something, anyways. I tried to help him, but what if it's impossible to put our pasts behind us? Maybe it's just me."

She shook her head, hair flying through the air. Her brow creased slightly and he had the distinct impression that she was staring right through him. He felt embarrassed, for some reason.

"Did you mean what you wrote me about being gay?" she asked.

He nodded, feeling his cheeks heat. The pause before her next words seemed to last an eternity, stretching out the air between them as though it were physically thick. The balloon that was the world seemed to compress to a pinpoint.

"You don't need to be ashamed, Harry."

Her matter-of-fact tone, at least in relation to the very public way he'd been outed, was comforting in a way that relaxed him, thankfully. His stomach unclenched.

"Right." He let out a breath of air. "It wasn't Draco, though."

"That's where you lose me. How do you know it wasn't him? Who else knew you're gay?"

Harry shrugged, refusing to seem startled that she'd said it like that twice. Merlin, it was strange to hear it from someone else.

"He wrote me an apology. He said it wasn't him."

"You believe him?"

"I—" Harry tilted his head back slightly, considering her question. "Well… yes, I do."

She sighed.

"What?" Harry asked.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, Harry, but it looks to me as though you've… fallen for him." She cracked a small smile at his bewilderment. "Or however you'd like to put it, of course, Harry. If I'm very honest, this isn't much a surprise, though I do wish you had done it without involving your job…"

"Excuse me?" He couldn't speak, in shock. "You're wrong! _Hermione!_ "

Anger filling him because he'd trusted her to provide him with some insight, Harry stood.

"This isn't a joke," he said stiffly. She looked mildly concerned, though the amusement on her face made the overall effect one that did not convince him.

"I didn't mean it to be." She leaned away from him, chair tipping with her weight. "Before you go, Harry, I needed to tell you something." she said. Her serious tone took him back out of his anger for a moment.

"Yes?"

She grinned at him, breaking the sombre atmosphere, and rested her hands on her stomach. "I'm pregnant."

He ended up going to find Draco.

It took him three days to convince himself to go, convince himself not to go, and then finally convince himself that if he didn't go, he wouldn't survive another hour.

After some digging about Draco's file, a dubious action that seemed meaningless beside Hermione's outlandish claim, Harry apparated to Draco Malfoy's house. His desire—no, his _need—_ to prove her wrong was stronger than the knowledge that he didn't have a plan of action. He knew he wanted answers.

It was a small one, though it stood tall on the corner of the street. It was a wizarding neighbourhood, as far as Harry knew, but he couldn't connect it to Draco until the scene shifted before him.

He focused as the material of reality to warped around him.

The house that suddenly appeared before him was darker than the previous, somehow quaint in its size and the opposite in atmosphere. The air itself seemed to be sprinkled with something royal, something extraordinary. Generations of distinction, though the location seemed not to fit. Harry thought it oddly right for Draco — he was not quite the snob of the past, but he hadn't exactly rejected his affluent background.

Everything evaporated from Harry's mind when the door opened. Wards had probably alerted Draco to some form of intrusion. It occurred to Harry that he didn't often make house calls. Then again, it wasn't every day that he was outed to the entirety of the wizarding world.

He was still an idiot, but maybe he was one that was not _quite_ as unlikable as before.

It was a week for big news, apparently. A week for lives to change. A week for all the avoidance that Harry could muster, until he had to give it up.

At the very least, he wanted to get to the bottom of what had happened to him. Hermione had nine months, but it was only a matter of hours until the press occupied his life, firing questions at him.

Having been thrust once again into the spotlight for something he had repressed for so long was not fun.

To Draco's credit, the only indication that he cared about Harry's presence was a slight draining of blood from his cheeks, leaving behind smooth, pale skin. All of a sudden, though, colour burst forth and Draco was all but running—stumbling, maybe—down the short path.

"What are you doing here?" he shouted.

He slowed as he approached, wariness overtaking his features as he appraised the wand Harry was holding.

"Whatever you think I've done," he said haltingly, "I haven't."

Harry lowered his wand, tugging his sleeve down with his other arm, self-conscious. "I wanted to talk."

"Talk? How sweet."

Harry glared. At the ground. "Yes, you should be familiar with the concept. I do remember a distinct inability of yours to shut up, so you needn't worry."

Draco, absurdly, seemed to relax. He threw a glance over his shoulder before turning completely. He looked back to Harry.

"I wasn't expecting company," Draco said in warning. Harry was amused, though he kept it strictly internal.

"I'm sure it isn't worse than what I've been living in for the last few days."

And it wasn't. The small room— _for receiving guests_ —was tidy. Draco offered tea, and they got through the pleasantries with relative ease.

"When I saw the Prophet this morning, picture, article, and everything, I couldn't believe it," Draco said, causing Harry to tighten his grip around his cup. Some trickled over the edge and dripped onto his lap. He composed himself, trying not to get angry all over again.

"Me neither. If I'm honest, hangovers, angry owls, and bombshells being dropped on the general public are not great morning alarms."

"Do you know who it was?" A pause and the quirk of an eyebrow. "I assume your call means I am not a suspect. Correct me if I'm mistaken."

Harry shrugged. "No one else knows, actually, but you're right." It was Draco's turn to choke. "It seems that I trust you. Also, if you were in the same shape this morning as I was, you'd never have had time to report anything."

"No one else knows?"

The surface of the tea in the little cup was suddenly very interesting. Harry nodded minutely in affirmation.

"Only I knew?"

"It was an accident."

Draco reacted to that as though burned, pressing his lips together and clenching his jaw.

"Luckily for you, I didn't make the mistake of telling you I share those proclivities while I thought you trusted me."

The silence that followed his comment was like gunfire. Harry squinted, unable to discern whether or not there was any truth to that. The snide tone was too sharp. But why would Draco say something like that?

Finally, he decided to react safely, backtracking. "A mistake in that I didn't plan on anyone knowing so soon."

"Potter, do you know what this means?" The dangerous glint in Malfoy's eye sparked something in Harry that he tried to firmly stifle with moderate success.

He didn't want to ask, but it was Malfoy. He could never resist.

"What?"

"We're equal now, after all those sessions. I know something personal about you."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "You told me your plot before getting anything more personal out of me. Have you forgotten where this discussion came from? If so, check the front page of the Prophet, above the fold!"

Malfoy's concentration was perfect for a moment, unbreakable. "Bollocks. Wait, there has to be a way to exploit this."

"Unless you want to probe me with secret questions over dinner or something, I think I'm safe."

Their eyes met. "Was that an offer, Healer, sir?"

Harry gulped, speaking before he could think. He cycled through anger, confusion, suspicion, and settled on madness. "I'm sure I could outsmart you. I'd like to see you try."

Malfoy smirked, leaning back in his seat, looking for all the world as though he were king.

Harry thought about Hermione for a fraction of a second, felt himself grow immediately restless, and stood.

"I have some more errands to run," Harry said. "Busy day, you know."

Draco nodded, looking as though he had something more to say. Harry didn't push it and the thoughtful look faded.

"You were simply brilliant company, Potter, we'll have to do this again."

"Piss off, Malfoy. When are we doing this?" Harry wondered if he'd misjudged, if Draco hadn't really meant it.

Grey eyes flashed and a slow smile stretched out on Draco's lips. "Tonight. I don't like to be kept waiting."

"A challenge, then," Harry said, tugging at his collar to allow himself to breathe once again. "I'll beat you, just wait."

"Ooh, Potter, on the first date?"

Harry groaned, closing his eyes.


	13. A Date

**XVII.**

It seemed surreal, simply unimaginable, unfathomable. The restaurant seemed to fall quiet as they entered, something heavy settling between Harry and Draco and the rest of the patrons. The silence, very slowly, crumbled and gave way to something far more chilling: murmuring.

The crowd was unified, muttering, shifting, whispering. They looked at Harry and Draco from the corners of their eyes, judgement seeping from them into the air, lingering like a strong perfume.

"Shit," Harry managed, under his breath. He'd forgotten the article. He'd just wanted some neutral ground, something that would let him talk to Draco in a way that was not professional—as in his office—and not overly personal—as… in his office.

Merlin, it was all jumbled.

The hiss of conversation slowly faded back into something that seemed more relaxed, not outwardly directed at him, and Harry felt Draco nudge him into motion. It was a moment that Harry literally felt jump through him, that brush of a hand against the small of his back, the whispered _"your turn, Potter,"_ that reminded him where he was.

Harry slammed his hand in front of the hostess who waited, shrewd eyes taking in every nuance of their interaction. It felt like torture, to Harry, because he had no idea what she might be thinking.

"I need a table," he said. "For two."

She looked at him for a few seconds, time dragging on, viscous, and then she glared at Draco.

"Are you together?"

Harry exploded. "Just because we're out for dinner does not mean we're together. Don't believe everything you read in the paper!" His voice soared, echoing in the small, dark room. "The gossiping is a personal attack on my person. I am far more than a figure for you to analyze. None of you know who I am, at least not truly." He swallowed against the bitterness that rose in his throat. "Why are we here? Draco, let's go."

And then, through the haze of anger that had spurred him to yell so rudely, Harry turned on his heel, grabbing Draco by the elbow, and all but dragged him out.

Sounding like he was enjoying himself far too much, Draco had the nerve to interject, just as they were slipping through the doors and back into the calmer, quieter outside.

"But yes, we were going to sit together. He's just a little bit tense."

The door slammed shut behind them. Harry sat on the curb, staring down at the dirty road, the cracked asphalt, and the trails of dust that ran along its length. He wanted to snap his wand and move to Canada or something.

"That was unexpected," Draco said neutrally.

"Don't start." Harry answered. "You are not qualified to analyze me."

"More than they were, and you let them."

"Let them? If I _let_ the press abuse me, then you _let_ Voldemort exploit you."

Draco sat down heavily beside him, smoothing his robes beneath him. "That was unfair, Potter."

"Life is unfair."

"It is if you act like a toddler," Draco said, but wisely fell silent after that observation.

Harry did not have the same common sense. "I'm not a toddler."

It was almost an offence that Draco didn't laugh. He did, however, say, "Enough sitting here. I'm beginning to feel bad for myself."

"I'm sorry. It's been a long week."

"I know, Potter." There was only the sound of their breathing for a second. "How would you like to go to a muggle restaurant?"

Harry could not turn his head fast enough. Draco rolled his eyes so quickly that Harry almost didn't catch it. They exchanged small smiles.

"Muggles aren't so bad, you know, Potter. Don't be a bigot."

They ended up in a part of London that Harry had never visited, not so shockingly. However, the way with which Draco manoeuvred himself—knowing the nearest apparition point so they could side-along, knowing to transfigure their clothes into something lighter that they could carry, the list went on—was really transformative. Harry had to remind himself a few times that Draco, at least where they were right then, was not his patient. Hermione's reprimands rang in his mind, but he did not pay them any attention, falling into step behind Draco.

"Imitation ethic food is to be taken very seriously, Potter," Draco chided as they looked over their menus.

Harry only knew that they were somewhere that smelled _spicy_. His mouth practically watered, his hunger making itself known with no room for doubt.

"Of course. This is of upmost authenticity—haven't you seen the pizza they also offer?"

Draco laughed quietly and Harry beamed, warmth bubbling inside of him at having elicited that response.

"We're either going to agree on what to eat or disagree completely," Draco said, ever the conversationalist. "Which do you reckon it's going to be?"

"I think it depends on how soon you start digging into my private life." Harry took a sip of his water. "I hope you know you're outmatched."

"We'll see," Malfoy sipped his water as well, looking over the rim at Harry with wide, wicked eyes.

They both ended up ordering everything at once, Harry looking for spice and adventure. In for a knut, in for a galleon and all of that. He wanted to make the most of the unusual experience. For moments, he could swear that he was just having a strangely elaborate dream?

Draco went for a safer route, though Harry noticed that he seemed well-versed, practiced. He knew what to say when the waitress asked him, and Harry watched his comfortable exchange with interest.

He only noticed he was staring when Draco asked, "Do I have something on my face?"

"No," Harry said quickly. "I was just… wondering… if… oh, Draco, look. Those men over there are wizards, too!"

It was a wild guess based on intuition, nothing more, and the comment was forgotten the moment he looked back to Draco, who raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Then I hope they have a spell to fix your abysmal poker face," he mocked.

"What?" Harry said, not convincing even himself in the innocent act. "Er…" he scrambled for a topic. "Have you been following the quidditch season?"

"Potter, it's the middle of the summer."

Harry coughed. "Right. How about last year?"

"It wasn't really accessible to me, considering I was in France."

"Do they have their own quiddtich league?"

"Potter, the fact that we are not on the continent does not excuse that horrifically narrow knowledge of the wizard world."

"Remember that I didn't grow up like you did. But if you didn't follow quidditch, what did you do?"

Draco thought for a moment, resting his cheek on a palm and leaning an elbow against the table. It had the effect of bringing them a little closer, setting some warning signal off in Harry's head.

"I saw all the attractions for a while."

"The Eiffel Tower?"

"Ten points for basic geography."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I know the muggle side of Paris."

"I didn't much interact with any other side. I did, however, catch up on some reading. I was woefully behind on my perusal of muggle classics."

That the interest even existed was a surprise to Harry. "What have you been reading?"

"Camus, but I don't expect you to be cultured enough to have heard of him. I rather sympathized, for some time. I was lucky to read it when I was younger. My governess had a taste for existentialism."

These were all words Harry hadn't known Draco had the capacity to process. He could do little more than blink in response.

"Now," Draco continued, ignoring Harry's crisis, "I read it in French. _L'Étranger._ Rather fitting, don't you think? Can be translated as 'The Outsider' or 'The Stranger'."

And wasn't Draco both? Harry considered it for a moment. Outsider to the muggle world but suddenly a stranger to the wizarding world. Or perhaps the opposite, but they were not one and the same.

He didn't push it. "What else have you read?"

Their food arrived as Draco considered it.

"Some Shakespeare, but nothing revolutionary."

"Do you understand the context of the stories?"

"As though you would!"

Harry thought he had a point there.

Draco continued. "It's interesting how similar muggle and wizarding history are. They're… different sides of the same coin."

Point for Harry. So Malfoy was the bookish type. Harry was intrigued.

Professionally, of course.

"Did you follow quidditch?" Draco asked after a longer silence, both of them beginning to eat. Harry's mouth burned red-hot and he knew better than to drink any water in attempt to quell the fire on his lips.

"I did for some time, but not as much as I did when I was younger. I can never go to the games."

"Too popular, are you?" Draco asked. He raised his glass of water with a corner of his lips, smirking. "Here's to our Saviour."

Harry scowled. "That's enough."

He couldn't help staring as Draco took a tiny sip of water and immediately returned to his food, thin fingers holding the fork and knife with great precision.

"You really are sensitive about that, aren't you? Hmm. How is it now that everyone knows…" Draco's eyes darted around at the people around them. " _you know what?_ "

Harry fixed him with the coldest glare he could muster, but softened as Draco's casual tone sank in. If Draco Malfoy could sit across a table with him at a muggle restaurant and ask about his homosexuality like it was nothing, Harry could treat it as such as well. Or at least he could try.

"I've not really thought about it. Hermione and Ron don't seem to be too shocked or disappointed. I have to see about the Weasleys. As long as I'm left mostly out of the papers, I'll be all right."

"You have to understand how enormous this story is, though," Draco said. "You are an icon, now."

"I haven't officially confirmed anything," Harry felt nervousness settle over him, causing the spice to burn more than usual on its way down.

"You're rather private," Draco said. At Harry's look, he continued, "It's simply surprising after imagining for so long that you loved the spotlight."

"I wish, if I had to be so famous, that I could be famous for actually doing something."

"You killed Voldemort."

"It's not like I didn't die, too. I just, er, happened to come back."

"What the bleeding fuck does that mean?" Draco dropped every facade of decorum for outright shock, voice rising. "You _died_?"

Harry, belatedly, realized what he'd said. "Yes, well, I died in the forest, but I chose to keep living."

"Of course you did. That's who you are. The Boy Who Lived."

"It could have been anyone." Harry said.

"I think it had to be you."

"Then why does everyone ignore me, now?"

"Wait, aren't you arguing that you didn't want attention?"

"You don't understand." Harry poked at his chicken, petulant. "I don't want killing Voldemort to be the action that defines me. I'm not proud of everything I had to do. I regret a lot. I survived, yes, but I've done so much after that. None of that matters, though, when you're _first on the list of most eligible bachelors_ in four different magazines."

Point for Draco. Harry hadn't even known most of what he'd said before he'd said it. No one had ever asked him in that way, led him to the truth.

He poked more vigorously with his fork, taking his frustration out on the food.

"Now you've done a great thing. You've given a lot of gay witches and wizards someone to look up to. I think that's very important."

Was it Harry, or was there some wistfulness to that tone?

Harry, very slyly, tried to ease back into the conversation.

"Thank you, Draco. I'll have to sort it out, make the best of it. Now that it's out, the hard part is done—I still don't know who did it…"

"They shouldn't be hard to find. Are you still being threatened?"

Angry at having lost his opportunity to steer the conversation away from himself, Harry shrugged brusquely. "Yes."

Draco frowned at his half-full plate. "Do you think they might be connected?"

"I think that I'm going to focus on the good things, not the parts that worry me. I've had enough threat of death, you know?"

Draco nodded. "I know. Do you ever worry about falling asleep alone—unless…"

"Unless nothing. I don't have a partner." Harry cleared his throat. "Second, I worry about my family and friends, but not myself. I hope not to have made anyone a target."

Point to Draco, unfortunately enough.

Draco looked at him thoughtfully, fork slipping between his teeth and then back with a distant air.

"Your ability to leave a mark on people is really quite remarkable," he finally said. Harry only barely managing to keep his lips pressed together to avoid spraying Draco with food.

He swallowed. "Sorry?" Immediately, his mind raced: compliment? Reference to the _sectumsempra_?

"I mean: targets or not, your friends have been with you throughout everything. Even through… what's happened in the press." Draco patted his lips with the napkin, folding it with great care in order to avoid Harry's questioning look.

Luckily, Harry thought back to what he'd wanted to say earlier. "Do you think your friends would react adversely to an admission like mine?"

"I would first have to have friends."

Harry thought he was right about that one. A point for Harry, though his heart sank.

"What about those muggles you were friends with? In France."

Waving his hand in the air in a dismissive motion, Draco looked up to Harry. "No one has ever wanted to know me well enough to get there."

Harry told himself that what Draco had said was not an admission of sexual orientation sympathetic with Harry's, but that impression still stuck with him.

For some reason, the thought of that was simply too exciting. Harry's hand clenched and unclenched below the table and he leaned forward, squeezing the air between them out of the way.

Draco raised an amused eyebrow. "The men I was with, though," he said, leaning back, "they knew me well enough."

Harry froze, mind running furiously. Point for Harry? Point for Draco? It was hard to keep track when his mind was at a standstill, unmoving.

The riotous laughter, impossible to predict, that came forth from Draco pierced straight through Harry. The whole world could hear it, surely, hear how light it was. Harry's mind went completely blank, void of any kind of intelligent thought.

He just wanted to know what it felt like to consistently make Draco laugh, when doing it once made him feel ecstatic. He wanted to feel Draco's happiness, know that all of his guilt and grief was finally put behind him. He wanted to melt the ice around Draco's heart. He wanted it all.

Harry stood suddenly. "Excuse me," he whispered. "I won't be a minute."

When he returned, slightly more composed, Harry tried to focus on his food. The challenge was forgotten because he knew that if he got any more involved in Draco, he would go mad.

Merlin, Draco had always managed to rip common sense away from him.

When the silence seemed to drag on for too long, Harry asked, "Are you living in a new house?"

It seemed to interest Draco, thankfully, and he started on a short story. Malfoy Manor, obviously, was off limits for him, but he'd used some family magic to _redecorate_ the new house in the family style, as he put it.

He described the intricate spells needed to redesign the house's facade, the hours he'd put into recreating one of the family homes, one that Harry wasn't familiar with. He told Harry about buying the house on a whim, moving all of his belongings from France in one trans-EU portkey trip and about his satisfaction with the results.

"It does have a charm to it," Harry murmured.

Caught up in the storytelling as he was, he almost missed the essential detail. Magic.

"How does the magic feel? You seem comfortable, now."

Hands folded on his stomach, leaning back on his chair, Draco gave him a small smile. "Powerful," he said. Then, smile fading, he continued, "After losing control in Azkaban, I've been putting my energy into productive endeavours. It's seemed to help."

Harry nodded. "Good decision. I'm sorry for the things that happened. He said dreadful—"

"Never mind my father. He's always been like that. I was simply—like he said—not in control of myself, as I should have been."

Harry found the opportunity too sweet to miss. "Will you visit your mother?"

Draco shrugged quickly, as though expecting the question. "We'll see," he said.

Right at the tip of his tongue lay the invitation to return to Azkaban, but Harry squashed it before the words could form, reminding himself that Draco would find it strange if Harry was quite so obvious about his obsession. He had to be subtler.

Then, in that moment, it hit him that he was enjoying himself. Mind games aside, his relationship with Draco had been personal from the beginning, but never before had Harry felt content in Draco's company. Normally, they were at each other's throats within seconds or else stuck with a desk between them in Harry's office.

They hadn't even been drinking alcohol.

It was all too much for Harry to realize at once, but the food was sitting in his stomach and the conversation was interesting, if something of a power struggle.

He was enjoying himself.

Harry was not playing a role. He was not being scrutinized. Draco was safe. It was futile to try and remind himself that Draco was potentially dangerous, especially with how good he looked without his robes on, just a simple shirt on and a satiated smile dancing on his lips.

He was staring again.

Feeling his throat go dry, Harry took a sip of water only to find that his hands were shaking. He was grinning.

"Are you all right?" Draco asked, causing Harry to wonder how long he'd been stuck in his revelations.

"Yes," Harry said, a touch breathlessly. "I'm brilliant."

Draco rolled his eyes. The good-natured mood seemed to grow tenser and tenser, like a string being tightened, and as they ate their dinner, the conversation dwindled. Something about his posture seemed to give way at one point, and Harry felt his chest constrict.

"What happened, Draco?" he finally asked.

The blond looked straight at him, eyes lifeless. "I'm sure you've remembered what your plans are after the dinner. Worry not! We're finished here."

Draco stood, removing the napkin from his lap and depositing it on the table gracefully. Harry, on the other hand, stood so suddenly that the chair went crashing to the floor. He ignored it in favour of running after Draco, who was walking to the door.

"Don't make a scene," Draco hissed when Harry caught him by the wrist and pulled, forcing him to turn back. But Harry wasn't paying any attention to the people around them. In that moment, the single most important thing in the world was keeping Draco with him.

"What happened?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Your self-imposed torture ended, _Potter_. I took enough of your time."

Sarcasm dripped from his words. Harry was dizzy.

"I don't understand." Draco twisted from his grip, moving to the door again. Harry all but ran after him, knocking an arm into a woman who was watching the scene and managing a hasty apology. "Draco!"

The door opened and Draco stood for a moment, silent, looking over his shoulder. Harry saw the scene behind him a split second before Draco did, the light from the street outlining Draco's figure.

The street performer—juggling fire—dropped his batons when Harry tackled Draco onto the street, diving at him and making them both roll along the pavement.

"Potter, get off me!" Draco shouted into his ear. Harry kept his grip tight, tangled in some fabric. He pushed them over, over, over, rolling into the crowd, but somehow they couldn't seem to stop.

Harry pressed himself against Draco, pinning him to the ground, about to tell him what he was going to see—because that was of vital, immediate importance—when Draco shifted his weight and caused Harry to go tumbling again. Draco was pulled down with him, shouts leaving both of them with twin anger and desperation.

The food he'd just eaten rose in Harry's throat, but he _had_ to warn Draco.

"Fire!" he shouted, trying to explain.

Pain exploded along his cheekbone. A punch. Blindly, he swung back, connecting with something that wasn't as hard as cheek. Draco grabbed him around the wrist before he knew what was happening, twisting until pain splintered through him.

"Don't taunt me!" Draco shouted. "You have no right!"

"I wasn't!"

"I don't want pity, Potter." Draco was seething, grip tight around Harry's wrist.

Harry tried to catch his breath, but it was impossible with Draco so close to him. He needed to do something—to hit him back, to explain it to him, or to… to… shut him up somehow.

"There was a…" Harry groaned as Draco pushed his weight against Harry's chest. "A man. A juggler. Fire."

The pressure suddenly removed itself and Harry could breathe, but then he couldn't because Draco was pulling him up, slamming him into a wall, and pressing the tip of his wand against Harry's chest. The wand was not visible to the muggle public, which had congregated to form a nice group around them.

"Say it one more time and you will regret it."

"I was protecting you," Harry said, strength left in him yet. A wand wasn't heavy like a body, though the risk it carried was far greater. Still, Harry thought he knew Draco. He wouldn't be able to hex him—not seriously. The gamble was still dangerous.

"I didn't want you to be triggered."

Harry realized how out of line he had been with a heavy certainty. Where had all of his training gone?

One didn't simply tackle a patient.

Words, words, words. They were the most important tool.

Harry couldn't believe himself.

Silence stretched on.

Draco's face went through a few changes, twisting. "I don't need your protection. I don't want your pity. I don't need anything from you, or have you forgotten? I'm not a pet project, _Harry_ , you cannot treat me like a child. Even the Saviour can't save everyone. You will not be my hero. I promise that you won't have to see any more of me. It was all a mistake."

The wand was lowered, Draco's face drawing tantalizingly closer and then he turned away and disappeared around the next corner.

Harry didn't follow him. Harry didn't dare remind him of the two remaining sessions.

Without further comment to the crowd, Harry returned to the restaurant, paid, and then took a long walk through the winding streets, taking random left and right turns until he was sufficiently lost—physically and in thought.

He expected to feel hurt. He expected disappointment, failure, but when it refused to hit him, Harry realized that it was something bigger than Draco thought. It wasn't some hero complex, not some latent wish to be friends with Draco, not pity.

It was not obligation.

It was desire that boiled inside of him. It was madness.


	14. The End and a Beginning

**XVIII.**

It was their last session. For real. Draco had missed their third scheduled one. Draco had to come, he simply had to, and Harry knew that it was time to leave their Healer/patient dynamic behind.

Harry shifted his weight nervously.

Still, he did not know what to expect. Draco had been furious and probably would still be. Harry needed to make a good impression. At the very least, they had to meet again for him to apologize. The end of their story could not have come so suddenly after Harry's realization that he wanted it to go on.

Hermione had been right, damn her.

Draco knocked on his door at precisely five minutes after their scheduled time, giving Harry just the window needed to start wearing a tread into the floor from his pacing.

"Good evening," Harry said, hands releasing his hair. He'd probably tangled it all. Draco would criticize him, for sure.

Instead of that, Harry was faced with a stubborn silence and melancholy glare.

"Could you extinguish the fire, please?" Draco asked wearily. "You didn't have to be this way."

Harry looked over, noting that the flames were burning high after the floo call he'd made upon his arrival that evening. His heart was pounding loudly as he put the fire out, shame burrowing into him.

"It was an accident," he tried to explain.

"Of course."

They started off on a bad note, to say the least.

Through Harry's perseverance, about halfway to the end of the appointment, Draco seemed to relax a little bit, receptive and responding to the questions Harry posed and the instructions he gave Draco.

"How are you feeling with half the dose of calming draught?" Harry asked, glancing up from his notes. Draco liked it more when he didn't stare intently as he was answering, so Harry looked back down.

There was a squirmy pause, as though Draco was trying to figure out how to get out of answering the question.

Harry's eyes rose again. Draco was frowning.

"I sped it up," he said.

Harry cocked his head.

"I did it twice as fast as you… recommended." Draco clarified. "I actually feel horrible."

Eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, Harry asked, "When was your last dose?"

"The morning after we went out for drinks."

Harry did a mental count of the days, wonder causing him to do the calculation again, just in case. "Are you trying to tell me," he began, but was cut off.

"It doesn't mean anything," were Draco's quick words, though the resolute stare he was giving the floor told Harry more than he could have said with words.

"You're telling me that the 84 hour grace period ended conveniently during our dinner, putting you firmly in magical-chemical withdrawal?"

Draco shrugged. "It isn't true."

"It isn't true that you shouted at me?" Harry raised his eyebrows. "That you were rather unreasonable?"

Draco's shocked expression stopped Harry's rhetoric. "Unreasonable? You pushed me to the ground. It was an attack."

A grimace grew as Harry realized that it was true. "I had good intentions!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "You were unnecessarily aggressive."

That much was probably true. Harry stood, unable to contain himself. So many emotions were coursing through him. It was probably better than any kind of potion could make him feel.

"I do apologize for being so sudden," Harry said, "but you started it."

"Childish glee is the epitome of Healer behaviour, is it?"

Harry laughed. "No, but I wonder if you might accept another offer to go for drinks?"

The pin-drop silence that fell over the room made Harry want to run. The answer did not come quickly, as he had hoped, but Draco did stand and come to face Harry before the empty, quiet fireplace.

"It's coincidence. I was going to walk out either way," he said. Their bodies were close together, exchanging heat—though maybe it was an aftereffect of the fireplace's flames. Harry itched to touch Draco's smooth skin as he considered the invitation. "I meant what I said."

He eyed Harry as though expecting anger. Harry hardly flinched, leaning against his desk so that his body was perpendicular to Draco's, a little bit shorter as well. He turned his face slowly, shocked to find himself so close to the expanse of skin just below Draco's ear.

"Draco," Harry whispered, watching the flinch when his warm breath hit that soft skin. "The decisions we made are behind us, but we've both moved forward. Merlin, I'd love to argue with you to make up those years we wasted with that rivalry. You're the only one who could ever challenge me."

Draco turned to face Harry, eyes wide, mirth dancing in them. "Not even Voldemort?"

Harry's expression turned smug. "Not in intelligence."

"Don't flatter yourself, Potter." But the space between them was so insignificant that Harry couldn't even take the insult as an insult.

The rise and fall of Draco's throat as he swallowed nervously overtook Harry.

"Drinks, you said? Perhaps on Saturday."

Harry's fingertips were a hair's breadth from Draco when he froze, remembering that he could not touch. Too far. He'd given too much away.

Draco didn't seem to have noticed.

"I hate you," Draco whispered, startling Harry so that the pads of his fingertips skimmed over the skin he'd been eyeing for so long. Draco leaned into the touch, Harry thought. Minuscule though the motion may have been, he wasn't imagining it.

"And I hate you," Harry returned, fervour in his voice because it was true. "I've never hated anyone more."

Draco gasped as Harry's fingers trailed behind his neck, to the hairline. Harry, applying minimal pressure because he could hardly think, pulled him closer. Draco's chin dipped, lips just out of reach of Harry's. They stood like that, frozen, for an indeterminate amount of time, barely touching.

Dreams had never felt this real, but Harry had to be dreaming. It was perfection, that moment. The heartbeat beneath his fingertips and the one under his skin seemed to be moving together. Every muscle screamed. He burned.

Harry was not the one who made the final move, and once it was made, nothing else fell into place. Everything was felt rather than planned.

The moment their lips touched, it was like a buzzing that Harry hadn't noticed went completely silent. He was removed from everything he knew, falling into sensation. Draco, skilled with his tongue as Harry had known he would be, teased his. They moved closer, bodies pressing together, hard plane against hard plane.

Oh fuck, they were kissing, well and truly touching in a way that could not be twisted into fighting. And Draco was giving back what Harry was giving. It was incredible.

They didn't even breathe, concentrated so fully. Their noses pressed together as their lips moved, Draco's hand finally tangling itself in Harry's hair. Smooth moisture coated Harry's mouth, and they parted occasionally with a soft sound, together again so soon afterwards that the separation was forgotten immediately.

Reality melted around Harry, forcing him into a timeless existence where all he wanted was more of Draco.

A sting shot through him as Draco pulled at his bottom lip with quick teeth, pressing a grin against Harry in a way that made heat strike through him. Harry was pushed against his desk, the hard surface digging against his arse as he pressed back against Draco. The pressure was stifling, the air heavy and thick.

A very different kind of thickness was pressing against his thigh, pent-up frustration that Harry could relate to very well.

Part of the excitement was the location, part of it was Draco, but most of it was the overwhelming feeling of success that was coursing through him as frantically as his own blood. Emotion was blinding, the friction of his cock against layers of fabric nothing more than an unsatisfying ghost of sensation, but the sounds Draco was making as he worked his hips against Harry's frame fell on ravenous ears.

Harry pushed back, feeling dirty and used and like he absolutely hated Draco Malfoy, and then he decided he really hated Draco Malfoy when the aforementioned shuddered against him, spewing profanity into his shoulder, the vibrations running up his skin to his neck, echoing inside of him.

It was the sight of Draco, red-lipped and unfocused, flushed and smirking, reaching one hand up to Harry's throat and the other down to Harry's cock that had him coming with a single squeeze of both hands.

He gasped for breath as heat spilled from him, leaving him hungry for one more kiss, one more touch, one more moment of mindless pleasure. Draco, evil by definition, stepped out of Harry's reach with the filthiest smug look that Harry had ever seen.

"I've never…" Draco said, somewhat out of breath, "not with a Healer. Salazar, not with _you._ "

Harry flushed. He couldn't form a full sentence until Draco had cast the appropriate spells to clean them up, and even then it was hard to remember what he wanted to say.

"We shouldn't have done that," Harry said.

"All the more reason to have done it."

"It isn't right," Harry repeated, though the tingling he was left with told him that it was the rightest thing he'd ever done. "I'm your Healer!"

"Then you'll have to fix me faster."

Harry closed his eyes against the suggestive tone, but he couldn't resist.

"Let's work on some contact exercise," he suggested, finding it impossible to resist something when Draco was so receptive and eager. "I'll stand right beside you—"

Draco got into position, but pulled Harry just as he was going to step close to Draco's side. "I was thinking… perhaps you should stand behind me."

Harry's heart rate spiked again, and the last fifteen minutes of their scheduled time were the longest of his life—and the _hardest_.


	15. Satisfaction

**XIX.**

Harry avoided Hermione's probing questions for the following few days. His mind, in any case, was already far too preoccupied with everything that had happened with Draco in their meetings—in and out of the hospital. Too much had changed—or maybe it hadn't.

Maybe they'd been destined for it forever.

In any case, he was prone to thinking absurd things such as those. He made himself tea that was too strong. He stared off into the sunset. He flew a broom for the first time in years. He talked to Shaklebolt and the guards at Azkaban.

He fixed it all, hoping that it might make the universe, somehow, reward him for his good deeds.

Nothing magically karmic dropped from the sky, unfortunately, except for a series of letters that Harry refused to open. The Prophet sent him howlers, demanding interviews and following up his silence with yet another ludicrous title. The other people, whoever they were, sent him similarly red envelopes. They didn't explode on their own, though.

And he didn't dare to open them.

It was all a lot of pressure, building rather slowly but having reached some threshold. Harry outright refused to think about it all. The number of patients he was meeting with and assessing seemed to be increasing dramatically and he barely had any time to himself.

It occurred to him that he might have to postpone the meeting—date?—with Draco. It was all too much.

In the end, however, Harry found himself making all the arrangements necessary to meet Draco. Just as he had once taken the night off of work, leaving it all to the less qualified Healers for that Saturday, Harry worked and reworked his schedule in a determined attempt to give himself time to prepare.

He apparated home with enough time to take a quick shower, cast some charms, attempt to fix his hair, and apply just a little bit of cologne before it was time to leave again. They'd agreed to meet at Lucky Felix, but the night started off with Harry popping into existence as an owl flew into the same spot.

Just his fucking luck.

Feathers flying around him, Harry sputtered and waved his arms. When the offending creature was gone, Harry was left with yet another red letter in his hand. His stomach turned, but he shoved the envelope into his pocket and pushed his way forwards, spotting Draco's hair in the crowd ahead.

It was like every weight on his shoulders seemed to melt away when their eyes met and Draco offered a small smile. It was confirmation that Harry had not imagined the things that had transpired between them, that he wasn't completely mad.

They pushed their way to the table they'd occupied the last time, sharing secretive glances and small touches, electrifying the air between them. Harry could hardly breathe, and it wasn't only due to the smell of the club.

"I almost don't believe I'm actually here," Draco said as they ordered some drinks to begin. He seemed shockingly talkative, charming like a salesman. "I thought for sure you would have forgotten."

Not wanting to say that their rendezvous had hardly left his mind all week, in spite of the stress, Harry just laughed.

"Then again," Draco continued, "the way you're dressed, I'm tempted to think that you did forget. The masquerade is next month."

Harry looked down at his robes and noted that they were sprinkled with feathers.

"I apparated into an owl," he said quietly.

"I dare say you lost the fight," Draco said. The waiter placed their drinks on the table between them.

"He was looking for trouble," Harry tried, managing a weak smile.

"And what were you looking for?"

"You."

"Ah, the age-old distraction. Apologies." He smirked into his drink, causing Harry to increase the rate of the surreptitious brushing of his robes.

Malfoy, of course, noticed.

He raised one eyebrow and said, "You missed a spot. Your hair is also full of feathers."

Harry brushed a hand through his hair, ruining all of his earlier efforts to style it, and came back with a fist full of feathers. The disaster he'd made of their meeting caused his chest to tighten.

"Now, don't let me rustle your feathers," Draco said, stifling a laugh. Harry flushed at the joke and Draco finally relented. "Allow me."

He pulled out a wand and pointed it at Harry, who was immobile, unable to move even if he had wanted to. A whispered spell later, Harry was bathed in warmth, a trickling sensation that started at the top of his head and cascaded down his skin. He looked down and the feathers were gone, fallen to the floor.

"Now it just looks like you're moulting," Draco said, winking. "Much more dignified. I love older men."

Harry kicked the table instead of Draco's leg and Draco snorted into his glass. He didn't kick back, however, but found and nudged Harry's toe with his own.

"You seem a little tense, Potter," he said. "Anything you'd like to tell me, you know, as your Healer?"

"It's nothing," Harry said, not in the mood for Draco's line of teasing. "I'm fine."

Two eyebrows rose, but Draco just took another sip of his drink. Harry followed suit, wrapping his own fingers around the cool glass in front of him and lifting it to his lips.

"And here I thought you were Harry Potter, eager student in the art of martyrdom."

Harry polished off his drink in a few small gulps, feeling it slosh in his stomach as he stood, and he was extending an arm and speaking before he even realized it.

"Draco, no offence, but shut up. Shall I leave or would you like to dance?"

There was a look of confusion for a second, and then the glass tipped against Draco's lips. He caught the last few drops there, then stood as well.

"If you flaunt your dancing in some attempt to prove yourself, I'll have to remind you that I'm not a bird who understands that particular mating ritual."

Harry wanted to punch him—shut him up somehow.

"Scared, Malfoy?"

It didn't matter; one more owl joke and Harry would not stop himself any further.

"I took dancing classes for seven years, Potter. You wish."

When they finally emerged on the dance floor, however, Harry saw the nervousness flicker through Malfoy. Harry was sure that in all those years of preparation, never once had Malfoy been taught to dance as they were being pushed to.

The crowd folded them into the centre of the mass of bodies and Harry felt himself finally start to relax. He moved along to the beat of the music, feet moving and eyes sliding closed. He swayed and responded to the energy along with everyone, losing himself in sensation until the moment when he was rudely pulled out by Draco.

"I can't do this!" Draco shouted, pale, the only still body on the dance floor.

Harry gave him a smile that was probably a touch too challenging for his own good. Draco stopped protesting. "Allow me," Harry said.

He stepped behind Draco, memories flashing through him, and then he closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Draco's stiff torso. He pressed himself against the curve of Draco's arse, the dip at the small of his back, and leaned his forehead against Draco's shoulder.

Then, listening again to the music and allowing himself to slip away from reality, he started to move. His hips moved against Draco's, filling him with a thrill that was only heightened when Draco hesitantly moved along with him. Harry swayed in spot, breathing Draco's scent in, and he allowed himself to let go completely.

The beat pounded, amplified in part by magic and in part by the sympathetic thudding of Harry's heart. He pushed them to turn, to move more, and Draco responded well, grinding back against Harry in a way that was almost too perfect to convincingly be the first time he'd ever done it.

Harry's arm resettled just above Draco's navel, pulling him closer. His other hand continued to rest on Draco's chest, above his heart, and he felt the two of them melt into the moment, becoming one with the booming music.

Some time later, Draco pulled away, causing Harry to look up in protest. What he saw in those grey eyes was arousal, dark and heavy even in the flashing lights, and then Draco was closer to him, facing him, pushing against him and pulling them together. They were one, rhythm demanding so that they were slipping, their bodies always touching, one of Draco's legs between Harry's as they twisted together.

The music never seemed to end, the movement around them infinite. Other people pushed against him, the drink was warm in his belly, and their lips connected once in a searing moment of passion that stole his breath more than dancing ever could.

Harry knew the moment that something changed because Draco's heat was suddenly ripped from him, his shout lost in the din of the crowd. Someone was holding onto Draco, dragging him away, and Harry heard only echoes of shouts.

The crowd became an obstacle, impossible for Harry to push through. They were a wall that separated him from Draco, but he somehow made it past the bodies. Draco was being dragged past the doors and into the bathrooms, doors closing behind him.

Wand immediately in hand, Harry surged forwards just as the music reached a crescendo and burst through the doors to hear accusations being hurled at Draco, who was on the floor at wandpoint.

"Murderer!" someone shouted. "Death Eater scum. You don't belong here."

Someone else kicked Draco to the ground, his hair splayed out on the dirty floor. Harry tasted blood.

"You don't deserve anything, not even Harry Potter. The two of you deserve nothing from the rest of us. You need to pay. _Scum_!"

A spell twisted and lurched from the tip of the wand, colourful light that Harry caught the briefest glimpse of before all but flying forwards. His fist collided with the man's stomach, sinking into the doughy fat, but it didn't stop him from repeating his action again and again and again until the man was as unresponsive on the floor as Draco. _Fucker._

The other man cowered somewhere behind him, but Harry wasn't finished yet.

"If you think you have any right to judge my life," Harry whispered, voice low, "I might remind you that I _killed_ Voldemort. Do you think you stand a chance?"

The man shook his head, trembling. "N-n-no, Sir."

"You will collect your friend, you will never approach me again, and you will remember that Draco Malfoy is a million times the man you are for learning from the past. Do you understand?"

Harry drew himself up to full height, anger burning through him. The man seemed to shrink even further, and he sniffed rather pathetically. "Yes. Please don't hurt me."

Harry sneered, wishing the other man knew just how angry he was, but then he remembered Draco and immediately knelt at his side. Harry apparated them out with one more murderous look at the man, seething.

Draco was conscious when they reappeared at Harry's, but Harry's anger had not yet been dealt with. He paced furiously as Draco tried to speak, pushing over three different chairs in the kitchen.

"Why did you do that?" Draco asked.

Harry shot him a look and continued to pace, his hands curling into fists.

"He had no right to touch you. After everything you've survived. No fucking right. Are you all right?"

"You _protected_ me, Potter. Why?"

"Answer my question!"

Draco shrugged. "I feel fine. I think the spell was a modified _stupefy_ , but nothing more. Why, Potter?

Dread at the thought that the spell might be something more serious—a curse?—sat heavily in Harry's stomach, but he was successfully tipped away from the immediate worry, emotion giving way to frustration. Harry whirled around to him, "Why? Because I've done enough harm to you."

He took a step towards Draco, knowing he might never be able to explain how he was feeling.

"Why?" His voice dropped an octave. "Because you're important to me. Because I _know you."_

Draco's tongue darted out, a little flash of pink to moisten his lips, but he remained still, cautiously watching Harry approach.

"I _know_ you, Malfoy. I know you and they don't—never will—but they think they do. I can't believe they think they know the first thing about you."

The air was still between them, killed by Harry in his explosive anger. "I fucking know you, and—"

Harry's brain went silent.

Draco always managed to make his thoughts disappear, didn't he?

Harry's worry died in his throat as Draco managed to smooth out his rumpled edges with one rough kiss.

Draco's mouth was against his. The thought suddenly reached his mind, a hot shock to his system.

They broke apart in wonder, staring at each other, and then Harry looked around at their surroundings.

He wanted to make Draco feel welcome. He wanted to undo everything that they'd ever held against each other. When they were both naked, and Harry suddenly knew they would be, he wanted it to be just Draco, not some other, younger, bitter version. The twist in the pit of his stomach was borne of butterflies, nerves, shock, and dizzying desire.

Around them, he saw reminders of starting again. Some boxes he hadn't unpacked, some bags of things he'd purchased for the flat, a wall that was neither red nor gold but a dark grey.

"I want you," Draco whispered. His voice was scratchy, weak, but Harry was even weaker for it.

"Just hurry," Draco whispered as they stumbled, suddenly unsteady on their feet, wicked smile on his lips that Harry only just managed to catch before they were kissing again. Draco stole his attention in a few swift moves, pushing Harry against the nearest wall and grabbing his wrists with both hands. He pushed back, separating from Harry and giving him a once-over with intensity burning in his gaze.

"Why are you letting me do this?" Draco asked

"I don't want to say," Harry said, words flying from him as he yearned to continue with Draco. Nothing with Draco ever came out just how he wanted it.

"This is insane."

The words were said more to himself than to Harry, and soon later, Harry let out an _oof_ as Draco's torso pushed against his, pressing him firmly against the wall. Harry wondered just how much Draco was understanding from the desperation in the way Harry was kissing him.

In a way, Draco had shared a lot with him during their sessions, sometimes unwillingly, but Harry was scared of the story his body was telling. The way he pressed his hips against Draco's, rutting against the pressure and friction, exposed his desire for what it was.

He was burning up from the inside, blinded by heat, moans escaping his lips, unbidden.

Draco wasn't much better, but he maintained his control. His hands remained firmly against Harry's, but the restraint meant nothing more than a chance for Harry to push back.

The two of them were never passive about one another. There was a dynamic nature to the way they coexisted in time and space, though Harry lost track of both as Draco kissed his way down Harry's neck.

Merlin, he'd waited too long to indulge himself. Hadn't it always been blindingly, deafeningly, obnoxiously obvious? The sweet tingling that rushed through him as Draco grazed teeth against sensitive skin was dizzying, breathtaking, and almost impossible.

With words, Harry didn't think he could ever manage to tell Draco anything that he could understand, in that moment, except perhaps, "Bed. Fuck me, Draco."

Cold air rushed between them as Draco ripped himself from Harry, eyes searching.

"You want me to top?" Harry bit his lip and looked up at Draco through his eyelashes, hoping that Draco saw how much he needed it to be that way. "Oh, fuck. Fuck, that's perfect."

With a groan, Draco started on his clothes, deft fingers darting in and out of the holes of his shirt to unbutton it.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?" Harry didn't need any more prompting to do the same, heart racing when faced with Draco's complete enthusiasm.

He allowed himself to be pushed to the bedroom, littering clothes along the floor on the way, and then bare torso met bare torso, unimaginable smoothness threatening to push Harry into insanity.

Draco's leg slotted between Harry's, thigh pressing tantalizingly against Harry's cock, which protested beneath several layers. Ignoring the disadvantages of their present state of undress, Harry threw his head back against the mattress, arching his back.

"How do you want me to touch you, Harry?" Draco whispered, lowering his lips to the skin just below Harry's ear for a split second before dropping a kiss to Harry's shoulder. "You have to show me."

A hand trailed along the centre of Harry's chest, dipping into his navel before traveling up, higher, circling a nipple and continuing higher, higher, to tangle in Harry's hair. Draco pulled and bit down simultaneously, drawing a whimper from Harry.

"Please…" Harry said, "whatever you want."

"Mmm, what an offer."

The hand travelled back down again as Draco worked his way along Harry's chest with his mouth, raising gooseflesh and captivating exactly all of Harry's attention. Suddenly, a warm pressure gripped him, drawing a gasp, and Draco's hand started working through the material of Harry's trousers, teasing his cock with sure fingers.

"Incoherent, are we?" Draco asked. "I'll have to remedy that. I want to hear you."

He slipped lower, sitting back so that he was between Harry's legs.

"I do know a handy spell that will remove these," he said, then whispered something that did, in fact, do that, but Harry was so overwhelmed by Draco's cold hands on his thighs that he hardly realized it. All he knew that he might explode if Draco didn't continue. "What do we say?"

Harry looked down, meeting Draco's gaze, and regretted it the moment he did. The image of Draco's red lips beside his straining cock, even before flesh met flesh, caused his heart to race. He could hardly breathe. He could hardly think.

"Merlin, _please."_

"Good," Draco said. _He licked his lips_ , lowered his head, and sucked Harry's length into his mouth, stretching around the head and looking obscene in a way that Harry could hardly fathom. It wouldn't take long if Draco's tongue continued to swirl with each upstroke, if his hands kept smoothing down his skin, massaging, if he continued looking so _perfect._

Merlin, he was fucking Draco's mouth and Draco was just kneeling over him and taking it. Harry could hardly remember that he should worry about Draco's breathing. Merlin, he was just taking it. Draco's grip tightened in the bedclothes around them.

As Harry lost every shred of composure he could possibly muster, Draco rose and released him, grinning evilly. Harry'd been right the whole time. Evil. Pure evil. Frustration rolled through him.

Draco raised an eyebrow to silence him. "Turn over, Harry," he said. "You won't be complaining in a few moments."

Harry was going to say something back. Something about having a huge ego. Something about being too sure of himself. Something about… something, but it came out as, "Merlin, your cock is—"

It rose from a bed of springy hair, light and translucent, and it was flushed. Draco circled one hand around the base, whispering a few spells that Harry actually could follow, some standard protective spells.

"I've been told," Draco said, altogether too collected for Harry to be able to understand.

Another spell—wandless? No, his wand was in his hand. God, it was all too much, too, too much—and Harry saw Draco's fingers glisten before he followed them past Harry's cock, brushing just against his perineum before dipping to the tight ring of muscle that lay past it.

Harry's eyes rose, inexplicably, to Draco's face as he was loosened and prepared. It usually didn't take too long, but the few moments passed by in a blur as Harry shivered at the concentration that creased Draco's brow. He was flushed, cheeks rosy and eyes bright, his muscles shifting below his skin as his hand worked under Harry.

Harry's eyes followed the line of his torso, the tapered waist and v of muscle that drew him back to the length that would soon be inside him. He clenched around Draco's fingers, earning him a hiss. Then, before Draco withdrew from inside him, Harry spotted the burn scar on Draco's thigh, just above his knee, and a wave of emotion threatened to overtake every other sensation.

His mind was sure to shut down, Merlin, he'd been so close for so long, but Draco had frozen and Harry had to know why. His lips were turned down at the corners, and Harry knew he'd been caught looking at the burn.

"Draco, it doesn't mean anything," he whispered fervently. "You survived. You've grown. You have what you need to move past it."

Harry lifted up on his elbow, reaching the other hand up to grasp Draco's left forearm. Very gently, he lifted it to his lips, pulling Draco a little closer, and kissed above the mark.

"It's proof that you're stronger."

Draco shook, fingers twisting sharply inside of Harry, and then the passion was stifling again, robbing them of any further conversation. It could be left for another time. Contemplating the fallout of what they were about to do was beyond Harry's ability, so he gave in to sensation and turned to his stomach, letting his legs sit wide beneath him.

Spread out before Draco, he should have felt some kind of vulnerability, but instead he just felt excited, sparks of anticipation jumping inside of him. He lifted his arse a little higher, hearing Draco let out a low sound before feeling the warmth approach, fit itself against him, and then the stretching started. Harry groaned against the mattress, pushing back against Draco with equal force, exquisite heat pushing inside of him.

He grew accustomed to the sensation in a few seconds, but there was no more patience left in him, so he rocked back against Draco, who seemed to have frozen again. Harry reached an arm back, grabbing onto a part of Draco's thigh and pushing, pulling, drawing them closer together until it was impossible to go further, and then drawing away.

Something clicked into place. Draco drew in a shuddering gasp and then his hips remembered how to move, drawing back and forth, dragging his cock in and out. All the while, his head was bowed over Harry's back, letting tendrils of hair trail over the skin there.

Harry was jerked backwards and forwards, the bed rocking beneath them with the movement, and the air, previously still, grew heavy with their groans, whispers, and breathing. He felt obscene, like everything he did was the dirtiest thing ever. He loved the heavy weight of Draco's balls as they slapped against him, wanted to feel everything more.

The urgency of the moment overtook them, the sound of skin on skin growing ever louder.

The monumental event that was happening with them at the very epicentre was impossible to believe, except how couldn't Harry when his cock was leaking beneath him, tip dragging against the fabric of the bed with each thrust.

How could he forget who was pounding into him when everything was Draco?

The scent in the air, the animalistic groans, the smooth skin that drew in and out of him—it was all Draco.

It was unmistakable, it was irreplaceable. When a hand closed around his cock, Draco's breaths growing ragged beside his ear, Harry drew up, balancing on his elbows so that he could arch his back and press against Draco. His heart felt tangled, full, and he could no longer control the way his hips pressed back. He was Draco's antithesis, responding to every move he made, every twist of his hips, and then the hand underneath him was twisting, pulling, tight, and Harry was caught in a web.

For a second, time seemed to stop, Harry's muscles tightened, and then he was coming in ropy strings underneath himself, pushing forward frantically into Draco's grip until he was empty, lost—but somehow he felt anything but.

God, the heat inside of him seemed endless. He couldn't remember how he had ever been content with a cock that wasn't Malfoy's.

"Harry! Oh— _fuck,_ Potter!"

Draco was still pumping his hips into Harry, moaning low and pressing one fist into the mattress below Harry's head.

"Oh—oh—Merlin—oh, fuck—Harry! Oh, _yes, yes, yes!_ "

He lost it with one last shout, thrusts erratic as he filled Harry one last time, shuddering and then stilling against Harry's arse, bottomed out, delicious and sticky and sweaty and everything Harry could ever have hoped for.

" _Oh_ ," Harry whispered, head turned to the side, cheek pressed to the bed. He felt Draco slide out of him, felt the depression in the mattress as he fell beside Harry, and was pleasantly surprised when Draco draped an arm around Harry's waist.

"Exactly," Draco said, breathless. Merlin, if that was how he sounded after sex, Harry couldn't think of any other activity he wanted to do more. He didn't think he could ever have enough of that voice, that relaxation, that embrace that was so complicated and simple all at once.

"That was—"

"Something I wouldn't mind repeating, Potter."

Harry couldn't help but agree with that sentiment, though he rejected every response his tired mind could come up with in favour of turning around and cuddling closer to Draco. The moment was surreal. The staccato rhythm of Draco's heart under Harry's ear was soothing but unbelievable, something far away but closer than ever previously possible.

There was so much to work out between them, years and years of history to rewrite, but in that moment, he thought that maybe it was possible. Maybe Draco was thinking the exact same thing—wouldn't that be wondrous?

Maybe it was even worth all of the struggle and pain. Maybe it was worth having to tell Hermione.

Maybe things would finally be all right. Maybe all the angst could be resolved, all of the competition relaxed, the fire extinguished and a new one lit.

A new beginning.

Harry drifted off to sleep feeling satisfyingly achy, warm, and content, Draco already snoring beneath him.


	16. Sacrifice

**XX.**

He and Draco were involved in something that was as yet undefined and kind of new, though they saw each other on two occasions after the first time they slept together—once after Harry was bombarded with questions in Diagon Alley, forced to apparate anywhere else. Harry ended up at his house with no excuses at hand but was treated with tea and polite conversation.

 _Red letters swirled around him, hot, shouting obscenities, coming at him with sharp edges and piercing shrieks._

 _Words spilled from the envelopes, coming in around him, twisting and jabbing forwards until the landscape before him was red, alive, bleeding._

Harry jerked from the nightmare, breathing heavily, and felt around on his empty bed. His glasses were on the nightstand, but his fear came not from the things he could see with them, but from things he couldn't. Ignorance and bliss were firmly connected in his head, on purpose, too, because he did not need extra worry in his life.

Things were murky, up in the air, and Harry had not said anything to anyone else. He continued to refuse to be interviewed by the Prophet, but as he sat there in the silence of the night, Harry started thinking. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to end all of the drama.

He did not have to suffer. Draco had faced his fears and was surpassing them, he'd grown, so why should Harry sit back and take the public thrashing he was getting—and the public harassment, especially if there was something to be done.

He got out of the bed, running a hand through his hair. The sounds of his soft footsteps through the flat were quiet, though the argument in his mind was raging on. What should he say?

The surface of the table was cool, sturdy, and when Harry smoothed out a roll of parchment, he was thrown back to Hogwarts all over again. Once or twice, Hermione had forced him to stay up and finish his class work, and those experiences had also taken place in a half-dazed sort of reality. The dimly lit kitchen was hazy around the edges as Harry focused on the paper, but he had one driving thought that pushed him to finally pick up the quill.

He didn't need Hermione to always tell him what was the right thing to do. He could make his own decisions and lead his own life. He could _be_ , just as Draco was, and rise above the things that tied him to the past.

Everything was all right until Harry finally remembered that he was going to write something that the general public was going to see. Gulping, he gripped his quill a little harder and wished that it wasn't a self-inking pen, or else he would have something to do before looking at the intimidatingly blank parchment before him.

He didn't need anyone else, though, and that stubbornness pushed him to write the first few words down. After those first few, the floodgates opened and it seemed that everything Harry had never ever considered came out on the pages.

 _I would like to preface this piece with an opinion. I believe that the Prophet is an outstanding source of news that benefits those who live in remote areas, those who want to maintain their role in society, and those who keep up with people who are in the spotlight. Unfortunately, I have noticed in my public career that, sometimes, those desires to stay entertained seem to outweigh any thought of privacy._

 _The word does not cease to exist for those who have done something for the wizarding world, even for someone like me._

 _I'd like to introduce myself as Harry Potter, not the Boy Who Lived, not a Saviour, but as a Mind Healer. I would like to tell everyone that my favourite colour, in spite of all the assessments and probing questions I've received, is not red._

 _There is another aspect of my personality that people have not had a chance to see, though it has recently been speculated. I would like to confirm that I am gay. This word holds little meaning to me because it is not a category in which I necessarily have to place myself forever, nor is it a definitive definition of my character._

 _I say that simply to confirm that I am interested in men and that it is normal._

 _Beyond that, questions seem intrusive. I would not like those I love to be thrust into this burning spotlight as I have been. I would not like to be picked apart. I would not like to live as an animal in a zoo might, caught behind glass and unable to speak a word. I would like for there to be understanding and support for anyone who feels the same way I do. I believe homosexuality is something the wizarding world should come to speak about._

 _I spent a lot of my life without any privacy, so I plead that this be the last time I need to ask to receive some._

 _My experiences are mine alone, not public for everybody to judge, but for my growth._

 _I would like to announce, however, that I am going to be holding private consultations for free at my office for any witches and wizards under 17 who would like to talk about anything pertaining to this issue. I can offer ten minute sessions every Sunday._

 _My office can be contacted at St. Mungo's, entrance 217, Healer Potter's Secretary._

 _I would love to hear from youth and discuss various issues, but I will not tolerate being questioned at every turn. This is something about me that is public but does not belong to the public._

 _Thank you,_

 _Harry_

Heart pounding as he stepped through his fireplace into a post office and picked an owl, Harry sent it without reading it over.

Harry returned to his flat, coughing at the smoke that he managed to inhale, and then noticed that the sun was just beginning to rise.

It was beautiful, the way the rays peeked between the other buildings that were higher than his on the inclined road.

He found himself staring at the sky, which was beginning to lighten in streaks across the horizon. As he breathed more and more slowly, he found that he was close to tears. The story, if not in the Prophet that same day, would be in the next. He would stay at home, work only that evening, and that would be that.

Perhaps, he thought, he might sleep for the rest of the day until work.

Right after the sun rose all the way above the horizon, heavy and drooping but so cheerful, colouring the sky with pink and purple as it stretched and twisted the darkness until it was banished by golden sunlight. It would be a hot day, Harry knew, but it would probably be beautiful.

Still, it would be best to stay inside, to think and meditate, to try and bring himself into the present by using some of the techniques he used with his patients. It was a stress that he hadn't known he was carrying, because when he stepped into the shower, moments later, Harry found himself laughing at his reflection in the mirror, managing to get the water to just the right temperature on the first try, and realized that he was hard.

Merlin, it wasn't good enough when it was his own hand and not Draco's, but Harry's mood was soaring, his hand was slightly cooler than the water, and he felt his hair stick to the side of his face as he leaned forward against his other arm, propped against the wall.

His hips lurched forward with every squeeze and pull, his cock appearing and disappearing into his fist as he pumped. He bit down on his bottom lip, recalling the way Draco had done the same to him, and then gasped when the thought of Draco brought another spark of pleasure through him.

The world was going to know exactly what he was, but Harry didn't care. He had everything he needed. Finally, he was being honest. He didn't know what had even come over him, but the moment had seemed just right. Merlin, he was going to explode just thinking about it all.

Ginny would surely smile at the story, Hermione would nod knowingly.

Draco would probably say that he predicted Harry was just being his usual martyr/philanthropic self. He'd say it in his smooth voice, lips parting and coming together, tongue moving, voice rumbling and shaking Harry completely.

Harry twisted his wrist as he moved along his cock, squeezing his eyes shut as the water beat down against his back.

Draco would probably get down on his knees, looking up at Harry with eyes that Harry would notice are exactly his favourite shade of grey, licking his lips as he always did. And then he'd close them around the head of Harry's cock, fingers exploring and squeezing until Harry could no longer remember that he was gay and not straight and famous instead of nobody because in that moment nothing would be clear except that Draco was simply too talented. It would feel so good, and nothing else would matter.

The world would stop.

Harry gasped.

Sticky heat covered his fingers as he continued pumping his wrist, the wall painted with strings of his come. He was breathing hard, skin all down his back over-sensitized, lip throbbing, but he didn't recall ever having been quite so relaxed.

Harry spent the rest of the day intermittently wanking and eating sweets, full of freedom and a giddy sense of accomplishment. Something good would come of him, and it would be even better if it involved Draco Malfoy.

The next day came before the article was published, but Harry arrived at work with boundless confidence. Even he could feel the strength in the way he held himself, even as everybody turned to look at him as he walked the halls of the hospital. He waved cheerfully at everybody, addressing some by name, and walked right past Hermione's office without a second glance into the door, not even when she shouted his name.

He was, admittedly, a little late for his first appointment—an assessment he had to do, but it had been extremely difficult to decide what clothing to wear—even though he always wore his Healer robes on top.

The first patient was there, looking at him with large, round eyes as he let her in and then proceeded to bustle around for a few moments.

"We'll do a whole hour," he promised. "I'll start timing it when we start talking. Then you can rest. I know it's late."

The hour went by surprisingly quickly, and so did the next two, and suddenly Harry found himself hungry for some food. It was, luckily, his lunch break, but Harry thought that he had a priority to take care of first.

The red letters.

Harry had been considering them at the back of his mind the entire day, trying to work out exactly how he could finally figure it all out.

He had just spread out all the envelopes that had accumulated over his office and in his pockets in the preceding few weeks on the floor when he had a moment of pause. Folding his fingers into fists, Harry steeled himself to read a few letters. He left his wand beside him and reached for the first envelope.

It was only a few letters in that Harry started feeling nauseated, fear like a disease inside of him. His stomach twisted when a knock came at the door although, for a moment, he wondered if it might be someone bringing him food. He wasn't composed. He felt his nerves were frayed at the ends. Surely, it couldn't be time for his next patient.

"Hermione?" he asked, opening the door with an excuse on his lips that might get him out of whatever talking she wanted to do. That dried on his lips when he found himself facing a red-faced Draco.

"She's not here right now, but she seemed to want to talk to me. I ignored her, so maybe you should let me in before she comes to hex both of us. Do you have this session free?" Draco asked, when Harry seemed not to be able to communicate at all.

Harry nodded, stepping aside so that Draco could enter, and that was when Harry noticed a small bag at Draco's side.

"What do you have in there?" Harry asked, pointing, and then regretted it when Draco shot him a glare.

"You'll see. Be patient."

Harry remembered all of the letters and tried to cross away from Draco in order to collect them, pushing them under the desk with his feet, ignoring the curious observation by Draco.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine. Why are you here?"

Draco glared again, pouting as well. His lip protruded in such a delicious way that Harry was tempted to break character and grin in return.

"I wanted to congratulate you," Draco said. "And I wanted to ask if you'd like to visit my mother with me. In Azkaban." A worried look crossed his face. "I mean, it's up to you."

Harry opened and closed his mouth twice. "Why?"

"You've inspired me," Draco deadpanned, looking up at Harry. He offered a small smile. "I'd like to say that's a joke, but it might not be. I've thought about it and… perhaps…"

He faltered and Harry tried to fill in the gap. "Perhaps it will be good to be honest. You've never told them anything about—"

Draco raised his eyebrows. "There was not a chance that they would hear me out, even if I had wanted to tell them. Now, though… my mother might listen."

"Her jail time is also going to be up far sooner than your father's," Harry noted, trying to keep his tone neutral with regards to that distant future. He wasn't entirely successful, apparently, because Draco flushed and avoided Harry's gaze.

Harry's heart skipped a beat as he approached, putting one hand on Draco's shoulder just lightly enough and slowly enough that Draco could have time to shrug off the contact if he desired. Draco sat there, looking up at Harry suddenly, eyelashes casting a shadow on his cheeks, jagged but running along the curve of his jaw. His eyes were full of vulnerability, questions in their depths that Harry wanted to answer.

"Do you think we stand a chance, Harry?"

It could have been about Narcissa. It could have been about their little relationship. It could have been a reference to the press. Harry didn't have a chance to answer that wavering question because an enormous boom rushed through the room.

Harry stumbled to the side, caught off guard and hearing a ringing in his ears from the noise. Something moved in the corner of his eye, and he suddenly looked over to the green flames of the floo.

He was supposed to be on break. Would someone appear, calling him? It was possible, but Harry had Draco in mind. As he cast a cursory look over his room and then at Draco, Harry felt a rush of air that came from travelling by floo, and then there was noise and chaos.

A hand closed over his mouth, something was whispered, and Harry, not expecting anything, was powerless to stop it. He'd left his wand on the table. He couldn't even move. Something had to be done. Draco? Where was he?

He heard a familiar voice—maybe one of the nurses he worked with? The hope for salvation was gone when he heard two other men speaking and then a spell that made him heavy with fatigue hit him.

Harry tried to shout, tried to do something, and the cursed himself when he knew that there was nothing to be done.

He had felt so free, earlier, but something very bad was happening. Harry could feel it. Never before had he felt so out of control. Nobody knew where he was, least of all him, but he knew that he was being pushed through a floo, green bursting around him until his stiff body fell to the floor on the other side.

"We read your letter to the paper and aren't really fans."

Someone came around him, kneeling. It took Harry a moment, but he recognized him and felt nausea swirl inside him. The man from the restaurant! His face appeared in Harry's line of sight for a moment, then he ducked away.

"Harry Potter, it's a pleasure to—"

Another body came flying through the floo, cursing. Harry's heart jumped into his throat. Was it possible? Merlin, he hadn't expected—

He heard a camouflage spell being spoken—shouted—and Harry knew it was who he thought it was. It was a spell he and Draco had practiced, but Harry had no time to bask in the knowledge that Draco was there because pain blossomed all across his chest. He couldn't look down, but the chill that he felt told him that his clothing, at least, had been torn.

He could feel a sticky warmth on him, spreading, and every beat of his heart seemed to pull the muscle farther out of his chest.

Blinding pain, then, washed over him, squealing and shuddering through his bones. Harry wanted to twist on the floor, but there was something stopping him. Magic. He couldn't focus enough to do anything wandless.

He wanted to shout for Draco.

Something was happening around him. Confusion, shouting. A lot of people, probably. He could dimly hear their arguing.

Fuck. The Occluded. It had to be.

Harry could do nothing but think about the spikes of pain that seemed to be piercing through him. His stomach was in knots, threatening to upturn itself. Harry could barely breathe, lungs on fire.

" _Incendio_!" someone shouted.

Harry could not feel anything but pain and heat, a wave of it rushing over him. Harry was frantic, wishing he could look around at everything and trying to catch his breath. Too many things were happening all too quickly. Explosions, screams, and spells going off every which way.

All he could discern of the dark room was that spells bounced off of the walls and that many of the flashes of light were green-tinged. He didn't know how to stop them.

" _Expelliarmus!"_

 _"Protego!"_

There was shuffling, running, and Harry wished for something more from Draco. He needed to know everything was all right. Where was he? Was he still hidden in the shadows with his spell? Harry wanted to scream.

 _"Avada Kedav—"_ Harry wished he could jump out of his skin between that spell and its target, because the voice was definitely not Draco's and there was a hysteria to it that Harry wished could stay buried in the past.

The moment dragged on, the result seemingly inevitable.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Draco shouted, and then Harry heard a wand clatter to the floor, followed by a heavy thud.

There was some more chaos around Harry, who felt as though his eyes were being pushed closed.

More voices—Aurors? But how?

Harry felt an enormous pressure being siphoned off at one moment, then the soft tingling of some healing spells, and then he was back in a room that smelled like Draco with soft blankets around him and a warm body beside him so he drifted off to sleep.


	17. Hope

**XXI.**

When he awoke, Harry sat straight up in bed.

Messy blond hair was splayed out on the pillow beside him, an innocent face, relaxed. Harry breathed again, like a hand that had been around his neck had just loosened its grip.

Draco stirred, rolling his head to the side before opening one eye to squint at Harry in the semi-darkness.

"What time is it?" Harry smiled at the sleep-thick voice.

"I dunno," Harry answered. He blinked. Draco blinked back, lifting his head off the pillow. "Am I in your bed?"

Draco dropped his head back to the pillow, mumbling into the fabric, "Yes."

Harry was silent for a second, thinking through everything he remembered.

"Did you… jump through the fire for me?"

"I want to sleep, Potter," Draco groaned, turning his face into the pillow even more. "They took you and I just followed in the f-fire."

"You saved me."

"Don't sound so surprised," Draco said. "But yes, I guess we're even."

The world shifted as Harry lay down again, knocking an arm against Draco. "It wasn't a competition, but I can't believe it."

"I channeled my best Harry Potter," Draco said, warm breath puffing against Harry's cheek. "You got _expelliarmus_ , but I defeated these neo-Death Eaters with _wingardium-_ fucking _-leviosa_."

"Here's a reward for that," Harry said, half-joking and half-annoyed, landing a kiss on Draco's cheek.

"Fuck off, Potter," Draco said lightheartedly. "You're the one who nearly got captured and tortured by teenagers."

That, somehow, struck Harry right in the chest. "They were so young?"

Evil did breed evil, but Harry couldn't believe that there were people who had lived through the war, who could have been directly involved and who would want to start that again. It was just—chilling, perhaps, to think about. Harry knew so many people who had sacrificed so much, and it was almost inconceivable that there were people out there who could threaten the peace so soon after it had been established.

Harry was startled from his spiralling thoughts by a kiss on his mouth. He looked to Draco, who had a sheepish expression on.

"You needed a distraction," he said, "and I wanted to ask if you're in any pain. You were cut up pretty badly, actually."

Harry raised his eyebrows at the news, though he leaned in for another quick kiss.

"No pain," he said.

Draco nodded firmly. "Good. My magic was shaky, but I patched you up and brought you here. You're probably still healing. You're lucky I had healing salve. Let me show you."

Harry met Draco's eyes, watching them flicker down to Harry's chest. Draco's arms slid out from under the covers, a light touch that moved to unbutton Harry's shirt.

"When did I put this on?" Harry whispered, noting that his shirt did not actually belong to him.

"I helped you change into it," Draco said. "You came to a few times and listened to me."

"Ah."

Harry watched as Draco pulled back the fabric, revealing his chest. The light smattering of hair did not hide the three discoloured trails that cut along his chest. Draco traced them slowly, but as Harry watched, he did not feel the touch.

"Do you recognize the spell, Harry?" Draco said, lifting himself up so that he could easily meet Harry's eyes.

"No."

"It's a healing spell that they used to hurt you. One woman was from your department at the hospital—I knew it! I couldn't allow them…" He didn't finish the sentence, though he lowered his lips to Harry's three scars. As Harry watched, the skin was slowly mending itself, though he fancied that it was the effect of Draco's kisses.

"Draco, are _you_ all right after what happened?" Harry asked as Draco moved up closer to his neck.

Whispering right against his chin, Draco said, "It felt good. At least now I know why you fought Voldemort so many times."

"Ha! Thank you," Harry said, and then Draco was on top of him, torso centimetres away from Harry's but lips pushed against his. They moved together for a second, tongues meeting and twisting together, their lips working to mould against the other's.

They broke apart.

"Draco, would you…?" Harry asked, fatigue heavy in his bones and embarrassment flooding his mind.

"Make love to you?" Draco mocked, though he smiled as he spoke. "I knew you were a romantic at heart."

Harry gasped as Draco lowered his lips to Harry's neck, sucking and biting for a moment before moving, covers abandoned and cool air a juxtaposition beside Draco's searing heat.

"Wait," Harry said, grabbing Draco's hair and pulling. "I want to suck you."

Draco's eyes fluttered shut before opening again. "Do you think you can?"

"A threat on my life has never stopped me before."

As Draco twisted, sitting again so that he was facing Harry's legs, his clothing disappeared. Magic was lovely, sometimes.

"Suck cock often, Potter?"

Harry couldn't answer, unable to stop himself from lifting his hands to cup Draco's arse, round and flawless in the dim light. He heard Draco inhale sharply when he squeezed and then pushed, exposing Draco's hole to Harry. Harry drew one thumb against it, watching the muscle squeeze in response, and then Draco was slowly inching up until Harry had a cock in his face, heavy against his lips.

Opening his mouth, Harry felt warm heat close over his cock, a pressure building there that told him Draco was going to make him suffer through it. Eagerness flooding through him, Harry allowed Draco's cock to slip into his mouth, keeping every touch light and the pressure at a minimum.

Zig-zags of pleasure shot through him as Draco worked his mouth against Harry's ever more firmly, decidedly, and Harry retaliated by sucking hard, taking in most of Draco's length. As he alternated between sucking and releasing, jaw working hard, throat squeezing when Draco's cock dipped low, Harry lost his mind.

The pressure was building for far too long, they were both far too close, their breaths coming jagged when they had a moment to breathe, sacrificing rhythm for gasps, hips thrusting as they both searched for some kind of release.

Harry's heart was held in a death grip, his lungs shouting, his senses assaulted by everything that was Draco.

Finally, when they stopped, both of them shaking, Harry only had a moment to prepare before Draco scrambled off of him, whispering some spells and pushing fingers inside of him.

Merlin, there was so much going on at the same time, emotion exploding in the air between them. The sun had come up, illuminating Draco from behind as he lowered his head to drop kisses along the insides of Harry's thighs.

Every muscle on Draco's body drew tight as he pushed, finally, after what felt like forever, into Harry. Harry threw his arms back, emotion ripping through him, feeling every part of him being shaken, his life taken apart and taken back together.

Draco's hips moved mechanically, though his hands smoothed over Harry's skin, pushing his legs farther back, farther apart, spreading him deliciously as he pounded into Harry.

His mouth was open, his jaw locked, tremors rising through him.

Harry could feel Draco jerk inside him, he could feel the stretch and the burn, the friction and the explosive pleasure when Draco found that spot inside of him that made him see stars.

Though Harry normally closed his eyes, he found himself unable to look away from the intense concentration on Draco's face. He felt every heartbeat, aware of the rush it caused in his ears. He wanted to sink his nails and his teeth into something—anything. He had to hold on, to be in control, but everything was being taken from him all at once.

Bare, lost, screaming with no idea who might be listening, unable to care, Harry gave everything away. All his compassion, all of his passion fusing together, twisting and sparkling. Draco's fingers closed around his cock, extracting something from deep inside Harry.

Throughout all of that, Draco somehow managed to keep existing.

Harry thought if he didn't hold on, he might drift away. The moment was elusive, fleeting, just beyond his grasp. He held onto Draco nonetheless, around his waist, pulling him closer as he screamed for it all to go faster. He wanted the perfect moment to last forever, the noise, the smell, the taste of it all to be part of him forever.

His body wanted more, more, more, and Draco was giving him everything he needed and more, more, more.

"Fuck," Draco whispered, finally breaking down as his release approached. "Fuck, Potter. Why are you like this? Why are you so good? Merlin—feels so good…"

"Perfect," Harry agreed, his voice hoarse and thin, head thrown back so that his throat was exposed, back arched.

His skin was on fire, sharp sparks darting underneath the surface, pushing and pulling until he couldn't remember what reality was. His breath was stolen, his voice another's. Draco's fingers traced the scars, scraped down the sides of his torso, grabbing hold of his hips to pull and demand.

Beneath him was the soft mattress, bouncing under their frantic movements, inside him only heat, and everything else fell away. Nothing else mattered. This was everything and this was nothing. It was being ripped in half, into pieces, it was being turned inside out. He loved it. Reality had no more meaning when Draco was inside of him, frozen, pulsing, filling Harry, claiming him.

Harry would give him anything. Draco deserved everything. Happiness, experience, love. Harry wanted to give him everything.

Draco had saved him. He'd jumped into a fire to follow him. Harry thought to the first time they'd cast a spell together, the shiver that had run through him, the elation on Draco's face.

There was abandon. The carnal need to claim, remember, and experience. But he was nothing, he couldn't remember, and every nerve ending was burned out.

There was comfort in losing his mind.

He could only shut his eyes against everything else and scream. Harry came harder than he ever had, it could be said, and when the darkness receded from his field of vision, he saw Draco approach him, laying soft kisses all over the exposed skin of Harry's body, saying the spell that would clean them up. Even after the sweat was removed, their muscles sang and their bodies spilled heat into the space between them.

"You're quite fit, Potter," Draco whispered lazily.

Harry laughed. "I gathered as much, the way you lost it."

"I love you."

Silence froze everything around them, and then Harry curled closer to Draco. "And I love you, though I still hate you more than anyone else."

"Good. I'm also very thorough. The Occluded are currently being questioned at the Ministry. I'm a hero."

"Been there, done that."

Draco tweaked a nipple rather roughly, though even that managed to send a shot of pleasure through him.

"Come off your high horse and worship me, Potter."

"I already do, _Malfoy_. I think you've changed for the better and I love it."

"It must be my hair," Draco mused. "You were always staring back at… at Hogwarts."

"I wasn't!" Harry buried his face in the crook of Draco's neck, inhaling deeply. "You're deluded. I don't even like blonds."

"Really?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe a little."

"Just a little. I'll get you to confess, Potter."

"I'd like to see you try," Harry said, rather breathlessly.

"I know that you've been obsessed with me since you met me. I'll make you say it."

"Don't flatter yourself," Harry said, but knew that Draco was right. Everyone had known it but he, it seemed, but none of it mattered now. "You're the one that will have to live in the spotlight with me."

"I was born for publicity, Potter." Draco's prim tone was immediately ruined by a snort of laughter. "We'll get through it, step by step, just like you showed me."

Harry groaned. "I can't believe we… in my office."

"I love that office," Draco said, tongue loose and body relaxed against Harry's. "We absolutely must do that again. Properly. With you screaming my name."

"And Hermione pounding the door down."

Draco waved a hand. "Doesn't bother me."

"Thanks, Malfoy," Harry said, feeling lethargic all of a sudden, like sleep was going to overtake him whether he wanted to or not. "For saving me."

"Thank you for saving me, Potter."

"Bet you're glad you didn't get Hermione," Harry's words slurred together, drunk off of the feeling of Draco beside him.

"I was always glad, Potter, don't be daft."

They were alone in Draco's bedroom, silence pushing down around them, sunlight warming them in strips. The outside world was probably in turmoil. Harry would have to make some speeches, talk to people, perhaps even attend a trial. It was possible that the ends wouldn't be wrapped up for months.

He would have to have a discussion with Draco, an honest one with no analyzing. Harry wanted to try his hardest, heart lurching with the thought that he and Draco had been pitted against one another for years and that they were finally being freed from that. Draco, in his pain and sadness, needed someone to care for him, but his wit and his eclectic energy would offer Harry the same freedom to be himself.

Merlin, he had to talk to the Weasleys.

He and Draco would have to introduce themselves to the world. That would probably take years, if they were even together for that long.

Though Harry knew it was possible that they would revert to their animosity, knowing that, at least for the moment, he was safe with Draco brought him strength and a smile as he drifted off to sleep. He was torn from sleep a few hours later.

The blue sky burned with a large, orange sun and there was a hand around his cock and Draco grinning into a kiss.

Harry found himself thinking that maybe he didn't _always_ have the worst luck.


End file.
